


Innocent Experience

by surroundedbyhorses



Category: U2
Genre: F/M, Not a Mary Sue, Passion, Trust, Will they end up together?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-12 06:27:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11156145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surroundedbyhorses/pseuds/surroundedbyhorses
Summary: Pre-SOI. Florence Lewis, is a 33 year old artist who is afraid of failure. She tells herself she is happy with tutoring children from Manhattan's Upper East Side in English and painting and never shows her work to the world. Everything changes when her drawings and sketches get into Bono's hands, who gets immediately fascinated by them and offers her the opportunity of her life.





	1. Could You Be the One?

**Author's Note:**

> I took this off Ao3 couple of moths ago, and I decided to upload it again. Hope you like it. Thanks to anyone who stops by to read this. Feedback is always appreciated. I do not own any of the characters here except for the original ones. The original characters are not based on anyone from real life. All situations are fictional. Thanks for reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own any of the characters here except for the original ones. The original characters are not based on anyone from real life. All situations are fictional. Thanks for reading.
> 
> Lyrics by Stereophonics

Every single thing you do is magic, baby,  
Every little thing that you do is cool,  
Every little thing you do is fashionably hip,  
Even when you’re mixing greens with blues.

  
"I love New York," Florence whispered, looking through the twelve-foot nickel and bronze windows of the apartment. All her life she had lived in Miami, but one day she realized Miami wasn't enough. So one day she booked the first flight to New York, and she left behind everything and took hope with her. Now she was in her friend's apartment, standing before the window, with the city of New York at her feet. She didn't care for the apartment's avant-garde stone walls and stark floors. It looked too somber. What she did like was the sun terrace with its view of Central Park.

  
"I just phoned my Dad," said Jordan. Florence turned to face her friend. "He'll be here in a few minutes." The girl offered Florence a glass of orange juice. And they both sat.

  
"Thanks."

"You like the place?" Jordan asked.

Florence didn't want to lie. She wasn't fond of the style. She didn't know why rich people were attracted by these luxury corporate-style buildings. To her, they were just fancy prisons. She nodded, sipping at her drink, and quickly changed the subject.

"Jordan," she asked, "I've been looking everywhere for my drawings. Have you seen them?"

"You mean the sketches? I showed them to my father. Want another glass of orange juice?" Jordan asked, trying to avoid the subject, but it was too late. Flo's flushed face said everything.

"What?! You know I don't want to show my work to anyone!"

"You have potential, Flo. And... I have big news for you," Jordan said in a nervous voice.

"Come on! What now?"

"You want me to tell you or no?"

"Okay," she sipped at her drink.

"A few days ago I heard my dad and he was upset that this guy on the phone didn't understand what he wanted."

"I don't mean to sound rude…" Florence interrupted her.

"Would you let me finish for Christ’s sake?" Jordan was losing her patience.

"Sorry."

"My father's band's about to release a new album. I can't say much, but there will be a world tour. And my dad wants something different to promote it. So, I showed him your designs..."

  
"I knew I didn't leave them on the train!" Florence clucked her tongue and downed the rest of the drink.

“Sorry, I should've told you."

"Yes, you should've. Anyways, I'm not sure what you want me to do."

"Just talk to him. He loves your drawings, and he is willing to pay a lot of money for them."

"I-- Jordan, I..." she didn't know what to say. Her back was to the wall. It wasn't her idea to use her skill to promote a concert tour, but she couldn't say no to her friend. After all, Jordan Hewson was the only one who had helped her when she was new in town and had had no job at all. And she also needed the money. She had just moved in with Brian, but she didn't want to be completely dependent on her boyfriend. And although the money she made working as tutor of  
English and painting wasn't bad, it wasn't enough.

"Please, Flo. I want the best for my dad. I really want to give him a hand."

"Your dad has it all Jordan."

"Well, almost. You're what he is looking for..." she said.

"Jo, please. I can't do this. I'm supposed to meet Brian for lunch. It's..."

"Your boyfriend will understand, Flo. Just text him. Tell him you'll be there ASAP."

Florence had to think about it, but time was running out. She could say sorry and run, or stay and miss her and Brian's first anniversary. The moment she stood up, they heard the lock turn. 

  
"I'm home!" said a voice from the front door.

  
"We’re in here!" Jordan's voice led his father to the living room. He was in a leather jacket and old bleached jeans. A pair of light blue sunglasses hid his eyes. His lips wore a smile Jordan recognized.

"Hello gorgeous," Bono said, and kissed his daughter's forehead.

"Hi, Da! That grin again?"

"You know what they say, ‘Grin and bear it!’"

"Whatever it is can't be that bad. You guys are doing what you love."

"You know Lardence, he can be a pain in the arse. I don't know how the heck he..."

"Okay, dad!" Jordan stopped him a little bit ashamed. "Enough of Uncle Larry. Meet Florence, my friend."

Florence stood up and extended her hand to shake his. Surprisingly, he approached her and gave her a peck on the cheek.

“Florence Lewis,” she said.

"Nice to meet you Florence," he smiled at the confidence in her amber eyes. She had dark chestnut hair done in a ponytail. It was a different kind of smile this time. He sensed she wasn't affected by his presence. Was she nervous? No, it didn't seem like it.

"Nice to meet you too, Mr. Hewson," Flo's voice remained as steady as her nerves.

"Oh! It's been a long time since anyone's called me that. You can call me Bono, love. Actually, you can call me whatever you like as long as you don't call me sir or mister. Please, let's sit, I'm knackered."

The black couch felt like heaven for Bono: he who had spent the night in the studio recording with the band. He took his sunglasses off and set them on the coffee table. The whole room seemed to spin around him. He closed his eyes and pressed his palms against them until he started seeing spots. Maybe it was too much. He had the last note of one of their new songs stuck on his head. A song that kept taking him back to a place he was uncomfortable visiting. The album was  
taking its toll on him and the band. They would either finish it or Bono would throw himself through the window.

They were pouring their lives into these songs. Yet they feared U2 might no longer be relevant. They wanted to avoid the aging rocker trap; pulling in tons of money on tour but putting out new work no one cared about. That was almost right; some no longer cared about U2's records, but Bono wasn't a man to give up easily on things he held dear. The seconds his eyes remained closed felt like hours.

"Dad, are you alright?"

"Uh?" he opened his eyes. Things still looked fuzzy.

"You alright?" Jordan asked again.

"Yes, I'm just tired. We didn't get much sleep."

"I can come back when you feel better," Florence said, wishing she could get to her date on time.

"No, please. I don't mind talking to you, love. In fact, I need something to keep my mind off the record."

Jordan saw the look on her friend's face in response to her father's affectionate pet expression. It wasn't obvious to Bono, but she could see that Florence felt uncomfortable.

“Uh... Dad, she's an American. They don't go around calling people 'love'.”

“I'm sorry, love,” he told Florence. “It's just the way we talk across the pond.”

“No problem, I've heard the Beatles use the term in old movies,” she answered, “I am just not used to it.”

Bono raised an eyebrow. Frowning, he shut his mouth. Jordan tried to keep a straight face, but she couldn’t help chuckling.

"Anyway,” Florence continued, “talking about my drawings won't help at all if what you want is to keep your mind off the record, Mr. Hewson.".

"I’m sorry?" he said, looking into her amber eyes. Something had her worried.

"Jordan said something about a tour."

"You're right. Then, I guess I shall pluck up my courage and face my destiny," he said, mimicking a posh British accent à la Mr. MacPhisto that made Jordan burst out laughing. Florence looked at her with a poker face. “Rich people are crazy,” she thought.

"Well, unfortunately I have to go," Jordan stood up, "I've got a lot of work to catch up on. And this is certainly not my business. See you, Florence."

"Are you leaving, Jo?" her father asked with concern, "I had plans for the two of us."

"I'll be back before dinner. I promise."

"Don't leave your old man waiting. I just turned down dinner with the president to spend some time with you," he winked at his daughter. 

His comment made Jordan smile.

"I won't Dad. See you around seven, okay?" she hugged him and gave him a peck on the cheek. "Bye, Flo."

Florence nodded and waved a quick goodbye to her friend.

"I'll pick you up!" Bono said as she disappeared.

"No need to," she called out before leaving.

As soon as Bono heard the door slam, he went to the bar and poured himself a Jameson, and  
asked her if she wanted some whiskey too.

"No, thanks, I just had orange juice," she raised the empty glass.

"Well, back to where we left it," he said in a casual tone as he walked over. He sat again in front of her, "I had a look at your work last night. I really liked it."

Florence leaned forward and stared at Bono as he kept talking. His lips were very thin. He shot words like bullets, making only short pauses to reload. His blue eyes must have been like neon lights when he was younger. A wild spirit, she thought. They still held a spark within, but the color was slowly fading. Flo was not a fan of U2’s or Bono’s. Actually, she had never paid any attention to them before; she had just seen random pictures of him on the Internet. He was shorter than she imagined he would be. The lines on his face were deeper than the photoshoped pictures of him in the magazines showed. She was enchanted by his voice, though. It was fluent and convincing; he was born for speaking. He enjoyed holding all her attention.

"I just can't believe Jordan took my drawings without even telling me."

"Guilty, your honor," he said in a mischievous tone. "She told me about your work and said it'd be a good idea for me to see it, but that you probably wouldn't want to lend me your portfolio."

"So, how did it end up here?"

"I asked her to... borrow it," he murmured.

"I see." For a moment she wondered whether she should trust him.

"Again, I am terribly sorry. I don't go around asking people to steal things for me. But don’t worry, your portfolio is in my safe."

Was he being ironic? Florence didn't like to mince words. It was something people usually complained about. She couldn't care less about it, though. They both looked at each other.

"Are you mocking me?” she said. “I'm afraid you are being ironic and very rude, Mr. Hewson.  
Why should I trust you?"

Bono was taken aback. He leaned back and rubbed his chin, staring at her in amusement, his baby blues piercing her eyes. Her words sounded so true and pure he thought it was almost surreal. For a minute, he forgot about the album, the upcoming tour, and all those little details that made him immortal among mortal men. He only cared now about not giving the wrong impression. A touch of sincerity was what he had been needing.

“What? Not at all. Why would you think that?”

“All your comments and your behavior. It makes me think you are just making fun of me and my work.”

“Of course I’m not. I’m sorry. I gave the wrong impression.”

There were a few seconds of silence. She avoided his eyes. He looked for hers. She could not explain why; he was really just a stranger. But for some reason he made her feel at home. She shook her head. The thought lingered half a moment and then vanished.

"I feel sorry for Jordan, but I really can't do this."

"Why? Is it the money? We'll pay. You'll have copyright in everything you create."

"Mr. Hewson, I--"

"Bono, please."

"Mr. Hewson," Florence emphasized, and continued talking, "I have a job to keep, a rent to pay and I only draw for fun. I don't want drawing to become an obligation because I will hate it. Art is supposed to be fun."

"Let's have fun, then! We know how to have a real blast. Don't you believe me?" he shot a volley of words in just seconds. "We're recording at the Electric Lady and you’re invited to one of our sessions. Full stop."

"Excuse me?"

"You come to the studio and we'll talk about your drawings again. Don't let me down, please. I really, really want to work with you."

Florence hesitated about giving the first answer that crossed her mind. She had to be sure before taking any steps precipitously. Agreeing on working for a famous rock band meant she had to be ready for anything. Late night working, busy days, paying less attention to her relationship...

"Brian!" she jumped on her seat remembering her date. She was late.

"Who?"

"Brian's my boyfriend. I really have to go. I was supposed to meet him for lunch an hour ago."

"Do you need a lift?"

"No, no. I'll take a taxi."

She stood up and walked to the door. Bono followed her and made sure to kiss her hand before she left. Being charming had always worked for him before. He smiled at the thought of the Graceland Tour guide girl’s blush as he hugged her trying to sell her on the idea of letting Larry sit on that hell of a Harley. He closed the door once he had lost sight of the dark haired girl.

  
He sat at the dining table with his laptop. He had plenty of emails to reply to, including one from his wife. Ali was back in Dublin. She was helping her mother to take care of her father who hadn't been feeling well in the past few days. For her, work always had to wait when it came to her family. He was glad to hear from her.

In the email she told him about the kids –they were almost men now. Bono refused to think that John, at age 13, was taller than he was. John loved to play rugby, and he didn't care about breaking his nose and having several lesser injuries in a match, as long as his team won. Elijah was the eldest and he was the man of the house when Bono was away. Ali said her father's condition was stable but she'd rather stay longer in Dublin, just in case. Sometimes Bono thought she felt better when he was not around. One less kid to chase after. He wasn’t even sure if she really missed him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had made love to her without it being just going through the motions. They loved each other, or their marriage wouldn’t have worked through the years. She had accepted his free soul and eager spirit from the beginning, and she loved his sharp mind. Ali was the only angel in his life, the only one who dug him out whenever he was face down in the mud. She had reached out to him every time he felt his world was falling apart, and it had been that way since they had met in 1974. But sometimes he didn’t want to be saved. He felt the urge to be the savior.

  
He had almost finished answering Ali’s email when he realized he hadn't given Florence his number. He wondered if he should have. He rolled his chair back. Without another thought, he threw the front door open and ran after her, hoping she hadn't taken a taxi yet. But there was no trace of her. He had to wait until dinner time. Jordan would probably give him her number. After two years living in the city, New York still amazed Florence. If she hadn’t been in a hurry, she would have been gawking like a tourist. She liked to enjoy every step she took. She couldn’t get enough of it.

###

 

When she had first arrived in New York in 2012 she enrolled in a poetry course. There she had met Jordan. They had become friends soon after. Jordan thought it was a relief that her new friend didn't give a damn about who her father was. They were both interested in languages and poetry and they completely banned all U2-related themes. Florence didn't know much about the band. Sure she knew they existed, but who didn't? Yet, she'd only heard two of their songs in her entire  
life. Celebrity wasn't something she cared about.

  
Jordan knew Florence was desperate to get a job. Since she knew her friend was good with kids, she suggested Florence work as a tutor in English and painting. Jordan eventually introduced Flo to her father’s friends. One of those friends was the famous and wealthy Henry Hammond, a businessman. He had two children: 34-year-old Henry Hammond, Jr. and the 20 year-old Hayley Hammond. Jordan heard her father's comment on how the girl wanted to learn painting, and she  
immediately thought of Florence.

  
Florence met Brian one day when she was at Mr. Hammond' house. She was just about to leave when it started to pour. Mrs. Hammond wouldn’t let the girl go out in such a storm. That was when her eldest son and one of his friends entered the house. 

_"You're soaked!" Mrs. Hammond yelled, running to the bathroom to grab two towels._

_"We're fine, Mrs. Hammond," Florence heard a powerful voice say from the other room. And then she heard Mrs. Hammond._

_"Florence, dear, would you mind helping me a second?"_

_"No problem,” she said, as she stood up and followed the voice._

_On her way she crossed the living room. She giggled as she heard the nanny yelling at Mrs._ _Hammond’ eldest son and his friend._

_“Boys, don’t you step one soggy foot off that welcome mat or I’ll beat you back into yesterday!”_

_Florence met Mrs. Hammond at the bathroom. She was complaining as she grabbed some towels._

_“It's always the same with Brian and Henry. When they get together they behave like they’re still_ _kids.”_

_Florence chuckled._

_“Could you bring these towels while I make some hot chocolate for the brats?”_

_“Sure.”_

_She found them rooted to their spots. She knew Henry enough to know he didn’t dare disobey_ _their nanny. He and his friend shivered with cold._

_“Your mom’s making some hot chocolate,” she handed them the towels._

_“Thanks,” they both said at the same time._

_She glanced at Brian. His wet shirt clinging to his torso enhanced his figure. He looked like an_ _underwear model. In the lamplight his green eyes shone like a cat’s in the dark._

_“Oh, Brian, this is Florence,” Henry said, “my sister’s painting tutor.”_

_“Nice to meet you, Florence,” he smiled._

_“You too.”_

_“Florence, would you show him where the bathroom is?” Henry said and turned to his friend, “I'll_ _see if I can find you some clothes.”_

_Brian followed her to the bathroom. He looked at her hips swinging. She wore a pencil skirt and_ _black high heels. Florence thought how odd it was that she had to show him the bathroom. According to what Mrs._ _Hammond said, they had known each other for a long time. How come he didn't know where the_ _bathroom was?_

  
_“Exactly as I remembered it,” she heard his voice behind her, “it's been a long time.”_

_“How long have you known the Hammonds?” she slowed down her steps. He joined her in a_ _heartbeat._

_“I was a kid. Henry and I were best friends. What about you?”_

_“I started working here last year.”_

_“Mrs. Hammond loves you, I can see.”_

_“They’re really nice to me. Hayley is very smart,” she stopped reaching the bathroom door. “You can hand me your wet shirt. Henry will bring you something else.”_

_“Do you have plans for tomorrow night?” he asked._

_“No. Why?”_

_“I have two tickets to watch a movie. Would you like to go with me?”_

_“Sure.”_

_“Well, I'll need your number,” he smiled._

Florence saw the same smile when she spotted Brian near the entrance of his father’s restaurant, The Gemstone, from across the street. He waved at her as she crossed the street.

  
Brian Stone had never gotten along very well with his father, Donald. His old man had always blamed him for his mother’s death at his birth. Brian left home when he was 18 years old. He was determined to earn a living by doing what he liked: photography. He used part of his savings to buy a good camera. The rest was enough to rent a small apartment. Brian took every job he could, living from paycheck to paycheck for the next few years.

  
Anton Corbjin was Brian’s hero. He had discovered the photographer’s work at the age of fifteen and it had truly amazed him. For Brian, the simplicity of his shots conveyed every intended emotion, and provided him with a calmness he hadn’t experienced in his life. Always natural, Anton’s prevailing black and white work showed him colors he had never seen before. He tried hard to find his own style, yet it was something he would have to struggle with for a long time. Once he thought he had everything sorted out, his life turned upside down. He couldn't find jobs as easily as he used to. And the money didn’t last forever. He eventually had to leave his apartment. He got a job as a waiter, and rent an even smaller place. One night he went out with a couple of friends, and he smoked pot for the first time. One time would do no harm, he thought.

  
But one time a week became three times a day, and pot became hash. In the blink of an eye Brian was craving for drugs in the morning, and high as a kite for the rest of the day. He dated a girl for a few weeks, but he ended up stealing money from her to feed his addiction. Eventually, he got fired and couldn't pay the rent anymore. The streets of New York became his new home. 

  
He was in bad shape when his best friend from childhood bumped into him in the street. His thin lips were barely visible, covered by the long beard that had grown. Henry could see Brian's tiredness from the bags under his eyes, which he could barely keep open. The stench of his clothes said he hadn't bathed in a long time. His shirt was torn and there were holes all over his trousers. His arms and face were full of scratches. It looked more like he had been fighting with a tiger –if  
not a monkey on his back. He was deathly pale and feverishly muttered unintelligible words. Henry didn't think twice. He grabbed Brian and took a taxi heading New York Presbyterian Hospital, where he was diagnosed with pneumonia. The fact that he was high as a kite had hidden the pain from a broken arm. Henry told the hospital to spare no expenses until his friend was out of danger.

  
Henry Hammond Jr. resided on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. He was born to Henry Hammond Sr., a real-estate mogul and Heather Hammond, the editor-in-chief of one of the most successful music magazines in the U.S. He met Brian when they attended Stuyvesant High School and soon they became best friends. But when Brian left home and Henry went to Yale to major in Law, they lost all contact. It was in 2005 when Brian was conscious again after spending two weeks in the hospital that they talked to each other for the first time in nine years. Brian agreed to go to rehab and his friend paid the bill yet again. One year later, on his 28th birthday, he came out of rehab. He was clean.

Henry picked him up and took him to his favorite restaurant in Manhattan. It wasn't easy for Brian to open up and tell his friend about everything he had gone through. But he made sure to omit certain parts of his story. He told Henry about the way he had left home when he was eighteen, unable to put up with his father's behavior. And how he'd tried to contact his elder brother, Joe. But all he got was a cold answer, then the number was changed without an announcement. When he no longer could find a job, the miseries of unemployment overwhelmed him. He sold his camera to pay for food, but the money ran out eventually. Without second thoughts, he blamed his addictions on the girl he had dated.

_"I wasted every single penny I made in casual jobs on drugs," he told Henry. "And my life went like that till you found me."_

Henry was wounded by his friend's story. He promised to help him on condition that he would not drink or take drugs ever again. When all was said and done, Henry talked to his mother about hiring Brian to work occasionally for the magazine.

That way, he settled down and his life went back to normal. And then, he met Florence. She was wild and independent. And they both loved art. She could draw and paint better than any professional painter he had ever met. Not to mention her photographs. That was exactly what made Brian feel he was in a quandary. He liked to be with Florence. She was his ticket to a settled-down life. She loved him and trusted him so much she would do whatever he asked. But deep down he couldn’t stand her superiority. She was everything he had ever wanted to be. It was easy to deal with it, though. Brian used Florence’s self-confidence as his best ally. Just a shrug or a timely comment was enough to shatter it. However, he tried hard to ignore the feeling.

  
Brian saw her approach. She looked great in black Capri pants. She compensated for her middling height by wearing wedges. She loved them. The white V-neck blouse she wore stressed the thin line of her neck. He wished he could capture that image with his camera. There was a time when he toyed with the idea of being a great photographer. But now, when he looked at Florence, he knew that was far from possible. He was good, yes. Otherwise he wouldn’t be working for one of the best music magazines in the world. But he would bet his bottom dollar that he would be replaced if they saw Florence’s work. Nevertheless, he refused to accept what he already knew. 

“I'm sorry it took me so long to get here. I was kidnapped,” she kissed him on the lips.

“Don't worry. I was kidnapped too. Heather called me to her office when I was almost leaving,”  
he said pulling a thin layer of black satin fabric from his pocket.

“What's that? Don’t tell me you’re now into ‘50 Shades’, it’d be gross,” she wrinkled her nose.

“Allow me,” slowly he turned her around. Gently, he used the fabric as a blindfold, “hold on to my arm.”

She couldn't say how much she walked. There had been some stairs. They were going up. Then a hallway and more stairs. Why no taking the elevator? Occasionally, Brian would kiss her. But they kept walking. Finally, they stopped. She felt the wind caressed her as she waited for him to take the blindfold off her face. She liked the scent hanging in the air. It was something different she couldn't quite recognize.

“Keep your eyes closed,” he said kissing the tip of her nose.

When she felt the thin fabric grazing her skin no more, she heard him speak again. “Now you can open them.” 

  
She obliged. The landscape surprised her. They were on the rooftop of a building, and she could see most of the city... again. She loved it. Florence turned to Brian and kissed him.

“You haven’t seen anything yet, honey,” he grabbed her by the hand.

  
They took a few steps. Florence recognized then the four men standing on the opposite side of the rooftop. They carried their instruments. There was a blanket laying on the ground and on top of it, a bottle of Florence’s favorite Château Cheval-Blanc.

“What…?” she asked with a dazed expression.

“Shh,” he brushed a lock of hair from her face and planted a small kiss on the corner of her lips. She looked again. And again. How on earth did he manage to bring the band Stereophonics to a rooftop? Kelly Jones waved at her with a happy smile. She tried to speak. Something came out this time.

“How did you bring them here?”

“Happy anniversary, Florence,” his face was shining with content.

When the band played the first notes of “Could You Be the One?” she watched him kneel in front of her. This was the first song they had ever danced to. Was this really happening? They had discussed the issue before. She never thought Brian was serious about it. His hand searched in his jacket pocket. He had thought about it a thousand times before he decided to carry it out. The velvet box brushed the back of his hand as he held it to pull it out.

“Could you be the one for me, Florence Lewis?” his voice was clear. Her eyes were locked on his. Was this too much? Was she ready to take this huge step? She was thirty-three. It was about time, she thought. She loved Brian like she had never loved anyone else before. Having a few bad experiences in her past relationships, she was sure this was the right moment. She stared at him. One word. Three letters. That was all it would take. How come she had come across two big decisions on the same day? And both scared her to death. She took a deep breath. Her gaze wouldn't leave Brian. Someone else’s face crossed her mind for a fraction of a second. She closed her eyes to wash away the picture. Her lips let it escape. One word. Three letters.

“Yes.”


	2. Seen It All Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics by Bring Me the Horizon

  
"I don't wanna do this by myself,  
I don't wanna live like a broken record  
I've heard these lines a thousand times  
And I've seen it all before."

 

The Gemstone was a Michelin three-star restaurant owned and operated by Donald Stone, himself a New York native. Located on 67th St, the restaurant had been destined for success since its opening in 1996. The Gemstone was Mr. Stone’s first solo restaurant and the one that made him world-famous. A burgundy red theme predominated, coupled with leather and polished metalwork. The Gemstone was a regular for many celebrities who liked to relax and eat well.

 

Oddly enough, Bono had never been there before. He had heard Edge mention it countless times. But he was too lazy to pick up the phone and book a table three months in advance. Or maybe he was too busy. At the end of 2013 he toyed with the idea of taking Ali there. But by then, she was the busy one. Finally, he decided to book a table for two for late August. As the date approached, he was glad to have Jordan around. Lately, he didn’t get to spend as much time with her as he wished. He was anxiously waiting for that night. It wasn’t until they both were sitting at the table that he could finally breathe.

 

“Jesus,” he sighed, “I thought we wouldn't make it.”

 

“Dad, you’ve got to relax,” Jordan said with a concerned look.

 

“I’ve had my sights on this restaurant for a year,” he took a deep breath and leaned back on the chair. He finally smiled at his daughter. “But now we are here. You look beautiful.”

 

“Thanks,” she said as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, “Thought you'd been here already.”

 

“No, I hadn’t. Edge never stops talking about it. But I was too lazy to book a table,” he motioned to the nearest waiter.

 

A pale, red-haired man in his thirties approached the table. With a grin he greeted them.

 

“Good evening.”

 

“Good evening,” Jordan and her father said at the same time. Her voice was lower. She could sense his excitement when he spoke next,

 

“We'd like to order some drinks.”

 

“Of course,” he waited for Bono’s answer. He didn’t seem to give it a lot of thought.

 

“I’d like a bottle of Cheval Blanc 1947.”

 

“Right away. Anything else, sir?”

 

“Not for now. Thank you very much.”

 

They watched the waiter walk away. Bono pulled out his phone and turned it off. He didn't want to be bothered by anyone. They looked through the menu. Jordan was wearing a short-sleeved white blouse and beige skirt. As she watched her father, her crimson lips showed a slight smile. They had always been very close. She had been born on his twenty-ninth birthday. His first child. She knew he missed having her lie on his chest like when she was a baby. He wished he could always protect her. Be there for her.

 

“Have you been sleeping these days, Dad?” she asked. “You look tired.”

 

“I am. But I needed to spend some time together. I haven’t been around for you in a while,” his voiced almost cracked. He sighed. “Let's drop the sentimental talk now. I'm a rock star.”

 

When he smiled, Jordan noticed the wrinkles in the outer corner of his eyes. He had aged in the past few months, she realized. The worst thing was that he didn't care. For her it was terrifying. She couldn't stand thinking about how the time they could spend together passed by. The traveling. The singing. All the things that kept them apart. She wanted more time. She wanted her daddy always by her side. The thought of losing him crossed her mind. Waves of regret troubled her mind. For all the times she said she was too busy. His hand caressed hers.

 

“Babe, what's the matter?” he saw concern drawn all over her face.

 

“Dad, I love you so much,” she said, fighting the threatening tears.

 

“I love you too,” he extended a hand to brush her cheek. “That's why I need you to light this night up for me with your beautiful smile. We're together now.”

 

She grabbed his hand and kissed it. She was smiling when he heard her speak next.

 

“We're gonna have a blast.”

 

“Girl, you know me!”

 

The waiter brought the wine. It was Jordan’s idea to order sweet and sour Thai calamari, one of her father’s favorites. Bono and his daughter were immersed in their conversation. He wanted to catch up on everything he had missed these last few weeks. She didn't know how, but they ended up talking about her boyfriend and her friends from New York.

 

“It's funny... do you know who owns this restaurant?” she asked him.

 

“Donald Stone.”

 

“Do you know who he is?”

 

“He's famous, Jojo. Of course I know who he is. Haven't met him in person yet, though,” he sipped at his wine.

 

“I mean he is Florence's father-in-law.”

 

“Really?”

 

“You can't even imagine how close Florence was all this time. She is your friend's daughter's painting tutor.”

 

“Jordan, I have thousands of friends.”

 

“Mr. Hammond.”

 

“Oh! So Florence frequents Henry's place?”

 

“It was my idea. She is quite an amazing artist.”

 

“She’s very Bob-Dylanish,” he stared into space rubbing his chin. “She reminds me of one of his songs.”

 

Images of Florence’s drawings were embedded in his mind. He found himself humming, “She's got everything she needs, she's an artist; she don't look back.” His words were inaudible to Jordan.

 

“It's a shame she is with that asshole.”

 

Bono's thoughts spread like smoke blown by the wind when he heard her daughter.

 

“What?”

 

“Her boyfriend's an idiot. You know, the kind of person who can't stand other people's talent. I've actually seen him putting Florence's work down like he didn't even care,” she took a bite of her food.

 

“She looked very in love to me,” he stated. “You know, she cut me off in mid-sentence this afternoon because she had to meet her boyfriend.”

 

She sipped from her drink. Bono rubbed his chin again.

 

“She loves him. She is very passionate about what she values,” she explained, “I've tried to make her realize he's a creep. But she won't listen. I've opted for not saying anything else.”

 

“He's gonna have to shut his mouth once she starts working with us.”

 

“With? Thought you were gonna hire her to work for you.”

 

“I've another plan. She is too good just to work for us. I want her side by side with the band. I was going to ask you... Do you have a number where I can reach her?”

 

“I _do_ have her number, but it's private. She's really angry at me because I stole her drawings for you.”

 

“I understand. I'm sorry I got you in trouble. Can you at least give her my number?”

 

“Are you sure?” Jordan eyes opened. His father never gave out his number. He always had people contact his assistant, unless it was a matter of life or death.

 

“Do you trust her?”

 

“Of course I do!” Jordan said. Florence had proved her responsibility and commitment. Jordan knew she wouldn't get her in trouble if she gave Flo her father's number.

 

“Then I trust her too,” he said and called the waiter for another bottle of wine.

 

“You're gonna get drunk Da.”

 

“Then I'll crawl out of the restaurant on all fours,” he winked at her.

 

They changed the subject a few minutes later. He drank more wine, and she had just water. They didn't even notice when their plates got empty. Bono ordered peach and mint mousse for dessert for both of them.

 

“I'm glad Eve's not here,” Jordan joked, “I can't stand another flourless chocolate cake for the sake of her gluten-free diet.”

 

“Don't be so harsh on your sister,” he scowled. Jordan rolled her eyes.

 

“I was only joking, Dad.”

 

“Well, what do you think if we keep celebrating? Let's watch a good movie.”

 

“‘Gilda’?” she suggested.

 

“Excellent!”

 

***

 

Fourteen hours later Edge plopped on one of the chairs in the control room of the studio. He had blood shot eyes. He arrived earlier than the rest of the band looking for silence. Unfortunately, Adam was eager to start his day. He was eager as a puppy when he popped up in the room. He wore a white shirt and linen trousers, and had spiky white hair. He put his cup of tea on the first flat surface he spotted.

 

“Hey Reg!” he said turning on the lights.

 

“Jesus! Weren't you supposed to be curled in bed with your wife?”

 

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed today,” he raised an eyebrow; “Morleigh isn't home, is she?”

 

“California,” he said. His eyes were still closed. “I wasn't coming, but Bono called early.”

 

“Is early four in the morning?” Adam sat in the floor. His back pressed against the wall, “I'm getting used to it. He's done the same thing to me twice this week!”

 

“I'll kill him if he doesn't show up in five minutes.”

 

“Kill whom?”

 

Bono spoke in an easy-going manner. His voice made Edge raise his head. When he swiveled his chair to face him, Bono's eyes opened at his friend's murderous gaze.

 

“Jeez, Edge! What happened to you?”

 

“Nothing important. Just a crazy friend who woke me up at four in the morning.”

 

“Wonder who would that be. I bought some muffins on my way here,” he placed the bag next to Adam's cup of tea.

 

Adam got up and grabbed one from the bag. “Good!”

 

“Where's Larry?” Bono asked.

 

“I haven't talked to him since we left the studio yesterday,” Edge replied.

 

“He better gets here soon. I want to show you something before we start the day.”

 

“I'd rather go to home and spend the day in bed. I feel like shit,” Edge stretched until he felt his joints crack.

 

“What happened to you last night, Reg?” Bono asked him.

 

“You _really_ don't want to know.”

 

Adam and Bono exchanged astonished looks. Edge was acting weird. Maybe it was the pressure. He had been going crazy for the past four years. He thought they would never finish the album; feeling that everything was getting more frustrating as time passed.

 

The band tried too hard to marry the message, the melody, and the sound and they kept forgetting to enjoy themselves. Larry was the one questioning Bono's decisions when he felt the band was going nowhere. The drummer had agreed with Jimmy Iovine when he had told Bono that he had to go back in time and ask himself some hard questions. He needed to figure out whether he was ready to write the kind of songs they were interested in. At first, Bono was reluctant to look back. The past was a place he didn't like to visit. Larry kept pushing Bono because he knew he could do it. Adam and Edge agreed that maybe it wasn't the best way to encourage him to look back.

 

After many arguments, Bono budged a little. He went back and revisited his childhood memories from the north side of Dublin. It started out like a voyage into early memories. Journeys of all kinds: California. Car bombs. Sex. Rock and roll bands in full flight. Friendship and love. But there was a place he wasn't ready to go yet. And he knew he had to do it, he just couldn't find the strength or the courage to crack his heart open and talk about his mother's death. As he struggled with his inner demons, the rest of the band felt that energy pulling them back to where they started like the burden of a broken-down 16-wheeler.

 

Adam mostly waited patiently in silence in a corner while Bono and Larry argued. Sometimes he flicked through his phone, or answered calls from his wife who hated that his husband spent days locked in a studio, only going home from two until eight in the morning. That left Adam with another problem to take care of. After giving up a little on putting an album together, Edge began to agree with whoever ended the arguments between Bono and Larry. The sessions with producer Danger Mouse had helped but they hadn't been enough. The band finally decided to appeal to Ryan Tedder and Paul Epworth, who had had great success producing Adele's 2011 album, and things started making some sense again.

 

“Morning everyone!” Larry's voice echoed from across the hall. Bono and Adam knew he was getting closer. When he entered the control room he found two faces staring at him. Edge couldn't give a damn about the time, he just wanted to sleep.

 

“Did you get lost, Larry?” Bono raised an eyebrow.

 

“No, boss. I had a little accident this morning. Thanks for asking, I'm good myself.”

 

“What happened?” Adams asked with concern.

 

“Someone hit my car.”

 

“Glad you're okay.”

 

“Oh, muffins,” the drummer frowned. “Who brought these?”

 

“Calories Hewson,” Adam giggled.

 

“Christ! You're gonna die, Bono.”

 

“We're all gonna die, Mullen,” he said calmly, “some from fat, others from a car crash,” the singer made a face at Larry. He couldn't believe the drummer was starting to be an ass so early in the morning.

 

“I've just had a very healthy breakfast and I am happy, by which I mean, you're not spoiling my day.”

 

“Okay, enough with the childish behavior!” Edge yelled opening his eyes.

 

Before Bono could say anything else, he was interrupted by the recording crew. They had to start working as soon as possible. Bono's little surprise had to wait until they were done in the studio. On the other hand, he had started writing the song he was looking for. He wondered what would the band think of it.

 

***

 

The day had passed almost in time lapse. When Florence hung up the phone with sorrow in her eyes, she looked through the window how shades of pink and mauve took over the sky. Brian had called. He had to spend the night in the building. Heather Hammond had scheduled an interview with Jimmy Page and he had to cover it. Unfortunately, the guitar player was only available after 9:30 pm before getting on a plane to London at midnight. That meant Florence was going to be alone in her apartment the whole night.

 

Florence’s one-bedroom apartment was like a haunted house when she was alone. She was terrified by the thought of sleeping on her own in the bedroom. Before she met Brian, she split the apartment with a friend from who needed a place to stay. She was happy to sleep on the couch as long as she had someone in the apartment during the night. When Sylvia had to leave, Florence freaked out. She spent three months sleeping on the couch until she met Brian and he started staying most nights with her. When he wasn't around, Florence would always go back to the old couch habit.

 

After thirty minutes of channel surfing, she turned off the TV. She had avoided the thought of being alone, but now she had to push her inner demons away. She was about to call it a night when she spotted her iPhone on the dining table. Curiosity bloomed in her as a flower in spring. She didn't know anything about U2, and she had been wondering all day long what made her drawings remind Bono so much of his music. It didn't take long to have twelve albums downloaded. She picked randomly an album and a song.

 

_Tomorrow_

 

The timeless uileann pipes grabbed her from the opening notes. She listened as if her life depended on it. She listened the way she had listened to Bono when they had met. A voice sang with a touch of grief mixed with anger. She knew that feeling. She had lived with it for years. It struck her like a knife to the ribs.

 

It was the same feeling. The same pain tearing their hearts. She didn't know his story. She didn't know if it was real. But he cried out as she had the night her mother had died. The song took her to an uncomfortable place she hadn't been to since leaving Florida. The ache was unbearable. But she couldn't stop his voice. She wanted to listen to what he had to say. She realized he was right. Through his music, she could hear what her paintings wanted to say.

 

The room was poorly lit as she sat at her drawing board. She turned on the lamp. She was afraid of what might happen if she pressed her pencil against the paper. She hadn't been driven by the feeling of loss, anger, and despair for a while. But she realized that the wound hadn’t healed, and it never would. Her fingers warmed the wood as she spun the pencil between them. She needed to do this. A charcoal dot marked the beginning. Lines and curves shaped a room. Tiny, like a box. There was a broken guitar on the bed and a knife sticking in the door. A teenager was perched on the windowsill looking at the bare street. He was ready to jump from the edge and join his mother.

 

Florence was crying when she stopped drawing. Breaking the pencil in two, she threw the pieces into the wastebasket. She needed some sleep. Listening to that music was an intense experience. Bono was a driving force, even through the headphones. There was no doubt that the pain she had seen in his eyes was real. It was there. Miles away from his smile, but for someone like Florence it was more than obvious.

 

The room was dark. The cool sheets felt good on her body as she lay on the bed. She wasn't aware she'd walked into the bedroom until the song was over. But she didn't care. His voice gave her the courage to face her ghosts. Staring at the ceiling, she heard a new melody. It evoked the sea and the night, reminding her of home. A peaceful sound, like waves lapping the shore beneath the moon. In the stillness she heard more. She sensed his lips parting before his voice caressed her ears. She had been there too: under a bridge in a rip tide that had taken everything she called her own. She had found someone who could actually tell her life through songs. Someone who was as wounded as she was. Florence didn't know if it was pain or joy that she felt that moment. As her eyes slowly closed, the voice kept saying she was one step closer to knowing.


	3. Not Dark Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edge had been working for two months with Larry and Adam on the music for the only song left to record. Bono would just sit in the control room and listen. He wasn't sure he cared about the melody; he was struggling inside to find the perfect lyrics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for reading, I'll be posting the rest of the chapters very soon, up to where I had left it. Comments and feedback are always appreciated. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Lyrics by Bob Dylan

_"I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal."_

 

Edge had been working for two months with Larry and Adam on the music for the only song left to record. Bono would just sit in the control room and listen. He wasn't sure he cared about the melody; he was struggling inside to find the perfect lyrics.

 

The daylight baked his eyelids before he entered the studio. Once inside, he plopped down on the couch. The whole room spun around him as people came and went. He heard babbling from across the hall. A drum kit being struck on the other side, and Edge's riff. It all echoed in his ears. The idea for the song was hanging in the air like the odor of the flower arrangement on the coffee table. Like the memory of a broken promise. It wouldn’t leave him. His mother was never far from his mind, but now especially, her memory invaded him. However, he always tried to repress sour memories.

 

He didn't even notice the sun setting on the horizon as he wrote down some lyrics. Reading them over, he grew frustrated. “That’s not what I’m looking for,” he thought as he scribbled all over the paper. All his drafts felt rough and empty. Meaningless. Another crumpled sheet of paper hit the wastebasket. His hand was growing numb from so much writing and crumpling. As Bono’s mind drifted away, he repeated the motions. Write. Read. Throw. The chain of events broke when someone’s hand rested on his shoulder.

 

“We better go now Bono,” Edge's voice stopped him. “You've been writing for hours.”

 

Bono sighed and pressed his palms to his eyes **.** Instead of spots, he saw letters dancing against his eyelids. He turned to face Edge, who felt a surge of pity for his friend. He knew Bono was struggling.

 

“Where're the others?”  Bono asked.

 

“Waiting for us. Let's go for a pint and forget this damn album for a few hours.”

 

“You're right." He folded the last piece of paper he had written on before standing up and putting it in his pocket. “A pub crawl’s just what I need.”

 

Edge knew Bono was teasing. Smiling, he patted his friend’s back. “Just one, or you’ll end up crawling on all fours to your place.”

 

“I make no promises,” he grinned.

 

Edge’s hand rested on his friend’s shoulder as they made their way outside where Adam and Larry waited by the car.

  

***

The smell of beer and lit cigarettes in the pub filled Bono’s nose as he crossed the floor looking for a seat. Adam found one and waved at him while Larry and Edge ordered the drinks. Bono felt tempted to light a cigarette, drink a beer, and numb the pain inside him. He missed home. Going back in memories to his childhood in Dublin had opened a wound he carried from childhood, one that had never healed.

 

“We're almost done with our little demon,” Adam said, stretching his muscles.

 

“I'm not even sure that'll happen,” Bono replied. He searched for a carton of cigarettes and a lighter in his trousers pocket.

 

“Don't you give up; I know it's hard. But you want to do it, right?”

 

“Yeah. I guess. All I need is…”

 

“Two pints, a Jameson for you, and a virgin mojito for Adam.” Larry approached with a pint glass in each hand. Edge joined soon with the rest of the drinks. Sitting across from Bono, Edge handed him a glass.

 

“Here, mate. You need it.”

 

“Thanks,” he said.

 

A glass became two, and two became more, until Bono's mind was miles away from the album. He was glad Larry's hunting season was over, at least for the night.

 

_Swear to God, I can’t put up with his shit any longer_

While he ran for his life like a gray wolf, Larry chased after him with a rifle, ready to shoot. Bono knew Larry didn't do it on purpose, but he didn't agree either with his idea of encouragement. Little did Larry know how harmful Bono found his actions.

 

For now, they relaxed. The next two rounds were on the drummer. Bono laughed and joked, making fun of anything he saw. He'd lost count of the glasses he'd drunk. Larry and Edge had stopped drinking after the third pint. As the night wore on, patrons started to filter out.

 

“In the sheer face of love. Like the Times in a stall!” Bono tried to hum the lyrics to The Fly accurately, placing a hand over his heart and extending the other. “Wait, I think I've missed that one. How did it go, Reg? Ah… now- now I got it. It was a _fly_ on the _wall!”_

 

Edge burst out laughing.

 

“I think that stuff went to his head big time,” Larry said, counting the glasses on the table

 

“Oh, shit,” Adam muttered as he covered his face in embarrassment.

 

Bono jumped in his seat when he felt his thigh buzzing. He pulled out his phone from his pocket. It was a text message from Jordan.

 

 _“She's got your number. I asked her to call you as soon as she’s made her mind. Luv ya_ ,” he read.

 

All of a sudden it was like he’d been given a freshly charged battery. His eyes lit up like the cigarette that he had just tossed in an ashtray as he read the message again.

 

 _She's got my number,_ he thought. He was drunk enough not to comprehend the meaning of the words he'd just read twice, but in his subconscious he knew it was good news. Very good news. It could change the direction of the album.

 

Edge noticed the sudden change of his friend's mood. Whatever he'd read, it had made him smile like he hadn't in days.

 

“Won the lotto, Bono?” he asked.

 

“Where was I?” Bono said, ignoring Edge’s ribbing. “Oh, I know. Let's rock this pub.” He rolled back his chair. But as he stood up, Larry pulled his arm and made him sit down again.

 

“Are you out of your mind? Let's get you home.”

 

“I'm fine. I'm not going anywhere, but onstage. I'm gonna sing karaoke.” He tried to stand up again but he stumbled against the chair.

 

“You're not fine,” Adam said. “I know you don’t give a shit about gossip columns, but at this point I think we have to go or you’ll make Page Six.”

 

Bono ran his hands through his hair in exasperation. Sleeping by himself in an empty apartment wasn’t exactly his idea of Heaven on Earth.

 

“Don’t worry,” Edge told Larry and Adam. “You go home and I’ll stay with him. I’ll make sure he gets home safe and sound.”

 

“Are you sure?” the drummer asked.

 

“We’ll be fine. Just like the good ol’ times. Go home, you guys, and get some rest. We’ll see you at the airport tomorrow,” he said. Bono leaned his head against the table.

 

“Yeah. Finally going home,” Larry sighed. “If only for two days.”

 

“I’m a great drinker, aren't I?” Bono said under his breath. Edge patted his back.

 

“I’ll call you tomorrow to make sure he’s okay,” Adam told Edge as he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.

 

“Okay. See you in the afternoon, then.”

 

As Adam and Larry made their way out of the pub, Edge went to the bar to get his friend a glass of water.

 

Bono's mind was loaded like a gun. He wanted to shoot someone. All the ideas running around in his brain, mixed with alcohol, made him feel like he had lit a Molotov cocktail in his head. When Edge spoke, his voice sounded distant to Bono’s ears.

 

“Bono...” Edge patted his back. “Bono, you have to drink this.”

 

“Go away, Reg,” Bono mumbled without raising his head.

 

“Listen to me, you have to drink the water. I'll take you home.”

 

“There's no home. I lost my home when my mother died.”

 

Edge's heart cracked. Time didn't heal all wounds. Some remained open through the years, ready to bleed any time. The stitches that had been holding together his friend's soul had been torn, thanks to the memories that their recording sessions dredged up. He tried to find the right words to say.

 

“You've got Ali, and your kids.”

 

“That's funny.” Bono raised his head. Edge wasn't as distant as he had thought; he was sitting right next to him. “I always used to be the busy one. Guess she found her own way, and now she's always somewhere else.”

 

“Let's go, Bono.”

 

Bono ignored his friend. “Now I know how she felt all these years. And now that I think about it...” He got closer to Edge’s ear and muttered, “I haven't had sex since my anniversary. But don't tell the guys, they'll laugh their heads off.”

 

Edge could only pat his friend’s back. He had nothing to say. Maybe it was just a phase that Bono and Ali would get through, as they always did. Edge always thought of them as the perfect couple. Maybe now that perfection had become a double-edged sword.

 

Bono really looked miserable. It had been a while since Edge saw his friend struggling like that, and being away from Ali was not helping. Two weeks wasn’t a long time without sex. But, for someone like Bono, feeling that connection with the woman he loved was essential.

 

 _No wonder he'd been very moody lately,_ Edge thought.

 

Bono folded his arms on the table, and rested his head on them again.

 

“It's really time to call it a night,” Edge said, moving his friend's arm. “Come on, Bono.”

 

Finally, Bono relented. “I'm bloody knackered. I wanna go,” he muttered into his forearms. “I wanna sleep for a whole year. Would- Would you mind walking me home? I might lose my keys... or _myself_ if I go alone.”

 

“Come on, mate!” Edge stood up and helped him get on his feet. Bono wrapped an arm around Edge’s shoulders to steady himself. Together they stumbled out of the pub.

 

 ***

 

Crossing the threshold of the apartment’s front door, Edge heard Bono mumble something about someone else's drawings and the tour. He didn’t pay much attention. It was probably just the alcohol speaking. Once in the bathroom, he helped Bono get rid of his clothes, and got him into the shower. After making sure that his friend could handle taking a shower on his own, Edge went to the kitchen to make a sandwich.

 

 

“…What the hell?!” he cursed, looking inside the fridge.

 

Making a sandwich had never been easier before. It was not as if Bono went out for groceries often. Fortunately, he at least had the necessity ingredients. Now Edge had to find something for his friend to drink.

  

Milk! There was a bottle of milk right at the bottom. It was half empty, but it would do. He poured some in a glass, and walked to the bathroom to make sure Bono was okay. He found him still awake, lying naked on the bed.

 

“Hey!"

 

"I'm _knackered."_ The statement came out as a plaintive excuse, one eye cracked open to give Edge a dark stare.

 

"Get yourself dressed and come to the kitchen,” Edge demanded. He grabbed some clothes that hung from the knob, and tossed them to Bono. _“Then_ you can get some sleep.”

 

When he turned to go back to the kitchen, an object on the vanity drew his attention. It looked like a sketch. He grabbed the sheet and gave it a once-over. Although it wasn't finished, it spoke to Edge.

 

Edge shivered, taken back to his days as a teenager in Dublin. He found himself staring at the same bare street he'd walked down with his brother on their way to Larry Mullen's house. If the drawing didn’t show that very street, it looked eerily similar. There were no colors added yet, and the pencil strokes were very light in some parts. Had Bono drawn it? It didn't look like Bono's style. There was a portfolio on the vanity as well, but he didn't have time to look through it. He glanced behind, and saw Bono still on the bed. He had attempted to put on his shorts, but he had left one of his legs out. Rolling his eyes and snorting, Edge helped him get dressed.

 

“I'm okay,” Bono breathed as he stood up with Edge's help. “I'm a tough Irishman.”

 

Edge was sure he wasn't okay, but he seemed more conscious of what was going on. At least he wasn’t plastered. Maybe Edge could persuade him to eat the sandwich and drink the milk.

 

At the table, he didn’t have to ask Bono twice to eat. He gobbled up every bite of the sandwich, and gulped it down with the milk.

 

“I thought you were piss-drunk,” Edge said.

 

“I’m _conscious_ , but I feel like shit." His bloodshot eyes spoke for themselves.

 

“Bono, you really need some sleep.”

 

“Yes, I’m gonna do that.”

 

“I’ll sleep on the couch, in case you need me. Morleigh’s in California with the kids. I’m sure I won’t be missed.”

 

“There’s a guest room, you know?”

 

“That’ll do. See you in the morning.”

 

“Sleep tight.”

 

Bono stood up and walked to the stairs. 

 

“Uhm, Bono…” Edge called out before he lost sight of his friend. “Would you mind letting me get a better look to the drawings on your vanity?”

 

“Sure, go ahead,” Bono answered, taking the stairs. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was curious about what had made Edge want to see those drawings, but he was too tired to care at the moment. “I’ll leave the portfolio in the guest room before I pass out.”

 

Bono chuckled. 

 

His last words sounded very distant to Edge. He leant back on the chair and closed his eyes. He could almost feel the air grazing his face as he and his brother ran on their way to Larry Mullen’s house in Artane. 

 

He could never forget the feeling of his fingers caressing the strings of his Gibson Explorer; the way he made it whisper and moan with every touch. After all this time, he still thought of his guitars as women he had to be very gentle to. Then, out of the blue, his ex-wife came to his mind. He hadn’t thought about Aislinn in a long time. He wondered what would have been if they hadn’t gotten divorced.

 

But why was he thinking about _that?_ If they hadn’t gotten divorced, he and Morleigh wouldn’t be together, not to mention Sian and Levi, his younger children. He certainly couldn’t face a life without them. 

 

“Enough!” Edge told himself, opening his eyes. Apparently Bono wasn’t the only one going back to his youth lately. He wasn’t sure whether to blame the drawings or not.  Turning off the lights, he went upstairs. He was dying to discover more surprises inside the black portfolio.

 

***

 

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Brian’s voice was Florence’s alarm call. She didn’t want to wake up from the best dream she had had in months. As he kissed her lips, she slowly opened her eyes.

 

“Hey,” she said softly, stretching her arms and legs. The sheets felt cool to her touch. “What time is it?”

 

“Lunch time,” Brian responded, looking at his watch. "Aren't you hungry?"

 

“ _Shit!_ I hate sleeping in.” 

 

“You were smiling." He raised an eyebrow. "Wanna share your dream?” 

 

“It was… odd. Seems my nightmares have gone away.”

 

“That's good. What about the old couch?”

 

Florence shook her head, and sat upright. 

 

“Four nights in a row and I still don't miss it. How about that?” Smiling, she kissed him.

 

“Didn't miss me either, did you?” He smiled.

 

“I did, babe. But I’m glad the nightmares are over…” Truth be told, she was surprised too. She tried to make a connection. The nightmares had been coming for years. How come they had faded away last night? “And I forgot to take my pills. That’s weird.”

 

“You had a good dream without your pills, right? No need to worry, then.”

 

“But... Brian, I’ve been thinking about my mother lately. Every time I think about her, my nightmares just get worse, but now… I don’t know. It’s really weird.”

 

“Enough of weird things, Flo.” Brian said gently.“You’re moving on.”

 

Florence let out a humorless, breathy chuckle. “With a past like mine, moving on isn’t very easy. It just isn’t. But, like you said, enough of weird things. I'm gonna shower.” 

 

Getting up, she walked to the bathroom.

 

Brian remained sitting on the bed. He stared over at the picture of the two of them on Florence’s bedside table. It was the first picture taken of them together. Her hair had been dyed black back then, and her amber eyes shone with excitement. His arms were wrapped around her waist, and he was whispering something to her. Brian couldn’t remember what he had said, but he remembered her words in response. _I love you._ The first time she had said those words to him, and the feeling was mutual. He hadn’t hesitated when he said them in return. Three words that felt like honey on his tongue. 

 

 

"I worked on something last night."

 

Brian’s thoughts dissipated as he heard Florence speak. Her voice mingled with the water.

 

"Is it that drawing on your board?"

 

"Yes. Do you like it? I got a job offer yesterday, and I think that's what they're looking for." She decided not to reveal the name of the employers **.** It was too early to throw big names around when she hadn’t made up her mind yet."I haven't made up my mind yet, but something went on last night and I found myself really inspired."

 

Brian walked to the bathroom, and stood up by the door. Looking at her silhouette through the shower curtain, he chose his words carefully 

 

"I did see it. Uhm, are you sure about that? I think it's too much."

 

"What?" She turned the tap off, sliding the curtain back to meet his gaze. "Too much? What do you mean?"

 

"I mean-- why do you think they'll like the idea of a young boy who's about to jump from a window?"

 

"It's just..."

 

"Besides, I think you could have chosen a different technique. And a different perspective, that angle is overused. But it's okay; if you think it'll do, then go for it."

 

Florence's mind was working at full speed ** _._** She hadn’t created anything worthy in months. What made her think this was a good idea?

 

  _I shouldn't have drawn anything_.

 

With a slight cluck of irritation, Brian pushed the thought of Florence’s work aside."I got a job offer too. A really good one," he said. "It's..." 

 

Before he could finish, the sound of his cellphone cut him in mid-sentence. Pulling it out of his pocket, he looked at the screen.

 

"Neil," he muttered.

 

"Something wrong?" She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her body.

 

"I gotta go back to work."

 

"Again?" she said, walking towards him. 

 

"Jack White. Heather's been trying to track him down for an interview. Seems like she finally caught him by the heel."

 

"Brian, this is the fourth time this week." They both reached the bedroom again.

 

"I really have to go, love."

 

 _Love._ Someone else’s face flashed across her mind when she heard that word. She looked past Brian, and spotted her cellphone on the bedside table. Should she give Bono a call? A mild sense of guilt rose in Florence as she realized she didn’t care that Brian had to go back to the magazine. But it was tempered by excitement. She could spend the day listening to U2. She was interested in the stories Bono had to tell, and although she didn't know if it was a good idea, she couldn’t wait a minute longer to paint them. 

 

“Okay. I have to go over to a client’s in the afternoon, so I’ll be a bit busy too.” She lied.

 

“See you tonight. I’ll make up for this, I promise.”

 

“You better,” she said, smiling as he kissed her goodbye. 

 

 

***

 

Bono’s head still hurt from his hangover, but he was glad to be back in Dublin. He’d missed this weather. The smell of autumn lingered everywhere. With every mile that passed, Bono grew more and more excited to see his kids. Ali was supposed to pick him up at the airport, but she hadn't shown up. She probably had to go over her parents’. Making a mental note to call her as soon as he got home, Bono had asked Larry and Ann, Larry’s girlfriend, to give him a ride.

 

When he shut the front door and looked around, the living room seemed larger than he remembered. It was a clear sign that he had been away for too long. A deathly silence ruled the house. He rushed to the bedroom, leaving all his baggage on the bed. _I need something to eat…_ Just before getting to the kitchen he detectedt2deajm

 weird noises emanating from within. _A break-in?_ No. He had spent almost half his fortune in security. Maybe it was one of the kids who hadn't heard the door. Walking cautiously, he approached the kitchen. 

 

“John?” he called, but there was no answer. “Eli? Is that you?”

 

No one called back. As he entered the room, he spotted Stout, the family's two year-old German shepherd, licking something off the floor.

 

“Stout! What are you doing, big boy?” Bono called. The dog met his eyes, staring at him. He walked towards Stout, his eyes widening as he took in the sight of what appeared to be dinner smeared all over the floor.“Oh man! You're in trouble with Ali. Come here!”

 

Stout stood up on his two back legs, and Bono hugged him.

 

“Yes, I'm happy to see you again.” Bono crouched down and petted him. “But now I have to clean up all this mess before Ali gets home. I'll play with you later. I really missed you.” 

 

He walked Stout out of the house to the backyard, and went back inside. Where was the cleaning lady when he needed her the most? It seemed like it had to be him after all. Rolling up his sleeves, he went looking for the cleaning tools. 

 

“Dad, is that you?” resounded from the living room. It was Elijah’s voice. Bono smiled- now he had a cleaning buddy.

 

***

 

Overlooking the Liffey from the roof terrace of Edge's room at the Clarence Hotel, U2's manager and three quarters of the band waited for Bono to arrive. Several bottles of Evian filled the wide table along with a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Larry tossed his cigarette into the ashtray and rifled through the pile of photographs that their manager had brought. Shadows were falling, but it wasn't dark yet. While enjoying a cup of tea, Adam had his eyes set on Dublin's skyline during the blue hour. Different shades of orange disappeared below the horizon, while the clouds scattered from the surrounding sky. As Oseary finished a conversation with another client over the phone, Edge could only look at his watch.

 

Bono was still late.

 

“As far as I can see, the guy’s good,” Larry told their manager as he flipped through the photographs. “What’s his name again?” 

 

“But is he good enough?” Edge asked in a mumble. He didn’t address to anyone in particular. He just stared at his watch, wishing Bono would arrive soon. The drawings from the night before hadn’t left his head.

 

After almost a year working as U2’s manager, Guy Oseary had finally gotten the band back on the track. When Paul McGuinness stepped down, they had no clue where they were going. Oseary had some notion of what it was like working with rock stars, so he didn’t run like a chicken with its head cut off when the band’s schedule got hard on him. 

 

For over two years Bono had been giving some serious thought to the idea of developing a scheme alongside Apple. When Oseary took over as the band’s manager, he helped Bono put the idea together. They came to the conclusion that U2 had to use technology, because it was using them. They had to find a way to get their new songs out to as many people as they could. Suddenly, one day, everything clicked. Bono came up with what he called a “beautiful idea”. Edge could still remember what it was like when the singer broke the news to them.

 

_“What if Apple gave the songs to every single iTunes subscriber for free?” Bono asked all of a sudden._

_Adam and Larry, who had actually stopped paying attention to the load of rubbish that had been coming out of Bono’s mouth for hours, glanced back at him with matching astonished faces. Red wine spurted out of Edge’s mouth when he heard Bono’s proposition._

_“WHAT?! Are you out of your foockin’ mind?” he asked._

_“Are you really talking about free music here?” Adam followed._

_“Of course I’m not! I’m not up with that shit. Apple will have to pay for our album first.”_

_“Do you think this is a good idea?” Edge was the next to speak, “I mean… why? Okay, that’s--” he stuttered, “that’s not the question I wanted to ask, but…”_

_“It’s a better idea than making Turn off the Dark a U2 album,” Larry told Edge as if he were explaining an easy math exercise. He couldn’t help but speak with a trace of smugness. Bono’s latest backlash hadn’t affected him very much this time, which left Larry feeling excited over his new idea. “Have you talked to Tim Cook?”_

_Bono shook his head, “I haven’t talked to the Apple folks yet. I wanted to talk the whole thing over with you first. I think we’ve discussed this before.”_

_“Yes, we have.”_

_“Why are you talking this down, Larry?” Edge asked him with concern._

_“You’ll do that soon as well, Edge. It’s a no-brainer. If they pay us for the album, they can give it to people for free. Adam?” Larry called out the bassist. He was flicking through his iPhone, oblivious to the conversation. “Adam, are you still with us?”_

_“Man, everything is so black and white for you,” Adam answered him without tearing his eyes from his phone._

_“Okay, never mind Adam,” Bono said. “Should we do this?”_

_“I’m back!”  Adam threw his cellphone on the couch and turned to his friends. He looked at Bono anxiously. What was going on? What new idea had Bono dreamed up this time? He didn’t know, but he liked taking risks._

 

Each band meeting was all about taking risks. As Edge thought of the drawings from last night, he pictured Bono turning them into U2’s next adventure. But how would he do that? He didn’t know, but he did know Bono. With him, risks were round the corner all the time. Edge wondered if the rest of the band was willing to take it.

 

“Good evening, folks.” Bono's voice faded in as he entered the room and crossed the terrace door threshold. Edge recognized the portfolio he was carrying.

 

“Finally,” Larry snorted. “We thought you’d forgotten about the meeting.”

 

“Something came up,” Bono said, and then addressed to their manager.

 

“Here,” he said, unceremoniously dropping the portfolio on the table. “This is my new idea.”

 

Edge settled down in his seat, one elbow resting on the table and his cheek pressed against his fist. Adam leaned forward to take a glance at what his friend had brought. Larry looked at the object out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t want to show his curiosity.

 

“What is it?” he asked, chewing the inside of his cheek.

 

“Drawings,” Oseary answered. “Apparently?”

 

“What? _Drawings?_ Bono, you _do_ realize that we're running out of time?”

 

“Totally.”

 

“Just what are we supposed to do with those drawings?”

 

Bono rolled back one of the chairs and sat down across from Edge and Larry. Unlike when Bono had dropped his idea for the Apple scheme, everyone paid attention to him. There was no flicking at phones, or babbling. The four men stared at Bono, waiting for him to step on the next land mine and make everything explode.

 

“Look,” Bono said. He took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “We've been going back in time while working on this damn album, right? We've had to deal with our past...”

 

Larry parted his lips to speak, but before he could say a word Bono shot him a daring glance.

 

“In our own ways,” he said, giving the drummer a long stare before looking away. “And it hasn't been easy.”

 

He stood up and paced the terrace up and down. 

 

“Where are we going with this?” Larry asked. Their manager's look shifted between the drawings and Bono.  Oseary wanted to be sure he understood what was going on. Bono had just dropped that portfolio on the table and said he had a new idea. But now he was just pacing the place up and down like a madman, as the rest of the party grew frustrated with every passing second. Finally, Bono stopped dead.

 

“ _This_ ,” Bono said, placing his hand on one of the drawings scattered all over the table, “is the heart of our album. This is why we are here now. This is us.”

 

“I'm sorry, I'm not following,” Adam was confused by all the drawings, scattered like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. 

 

“Take a look at them, Adam. Take a look and tell me what is it that you see?”

 

“May I?” Oseary handed over the drawings, and Adam began to study them. He observed each of them very carefully, taking his time. There was no rush. Judging by Bono's tone, he understood how important they were to him. Finally, Adam looked up. 

 

“You want to use this,” Oseary said. It wasn't a question. He'd gotten to know Bono well in the year he’d spent working for him.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Wanna take a look, Edge?” Larry asked, before grabbing the pile from Adam's hands.

 

“No. I've already seen them.”

 

“Have you?” Larry asked in confusion. He looked at Bono. “How come we're the last ones to know?”

 

“Larry, not right now. That's the kind of question we can do without. We're discussing business here.”

 

The heat of Larry’s anger was steadily rising. “Business?  _Your_  business you mean. You're treating us like outsiders.”

 

“Enough with that bullshit, Larry.” Bono could feel himself beginning to lose his patience. Larry's character was like a flick knife. His good sense saved the band from making the wrong decisions most of the times; however, his particular way of seeing life was dangerous when it clashed with Bono’s.

 

Larry stood up and walked to his friend, glaring daggers at him.

 

“This ain't bullshit. Edge knew of your idea. We didn't. We've been racking our brains the past few months and you...”

 

“I didn't  _know_  of his idea. I just saw the drawings the night he was drunk. I didn't know what they were for,” Edge tried to ease the mood.

 

“Guys, let's calm down,” Oseary asked both Larry and Bono. “We can discuss this further tomorrow.”

 

But Bono wasn't going to keep quiet.

 

“So what if Edge knew? _You k_ now now. I've just told you.”

 

“Who drew these?” Adam asked. 

 

“A friend of Jordan's.”

 

“Well, he's very talented.”

 

“Uh-uh,” Bono shook his head. “It's a _she_.”

 

“We're not using these drawings to promote our new material,” Larry resolved after giving them a glance. There it was again, the flick knife. 

 

“Why not?”Bono stepped up challengingly, still facing Larry.

 

“We've already got someone to do that. And we’re not going to turn him down for some crayon-painter girl. And  _we_  have a deadline.”

 

This new information took Bono aback. “Who’s the guy?”

 

“A photographer from your friend Heather Hammond's magazine.”

 

“And you didn’t tell me,” he said calmly.

 

“We're even, then.” Larry shrugged, tilting his head to the right.

 

“Larry, the drawings are quite something,” Adam told him.

 

“Are you even sure she’s gonna take the job?” Larry asked Bono,.

 

“No, but…”

 

“Then that’s it. Let’s stop wasting our time. This guy is waiting for us to sign the contract,” he motioned to the photographer’s work.

 

“Let me see,” Bono said to Oseary, who handed him the photographs. He studied them, taking his time like Adam had done a few minutes earlier. It didn’t take long for Bono to make up his mind. In one swift movement, he gathered the drawings and the portfolio from the table. Still holding the photographs, he faced Larry again.

 

“I thought you were able to recognize shit when you saw it,” Bono told Larry, angrily pushing the pile of photographs against his friend's chest. "Toss these!"

 

“Where're you going?” Adam called out as Bono entered the suite, making for the door.

 

“Home.”

 

A grimace split Edge’s face at the sound of the door slamming.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

The living room was semi-dark when Bono stepped in. Immediately he recognized the silhouette of his wife, standing before the window. She was lost in thought as she watched the Irish Sea. But still she sensed his presence, and turned to face him. Though neither said anything at first, their mutual joy was palpable in the air. It had been so long since they’d seen each other.

 

"Still up?" Bono asked as he approached Ali.

 

"The boys are staying at a friend's."

 

"Yes, I talked to them this afternoon. They were very excited. Something to do with guitar playing and skateboarding, I figure."

 

"Uh huh," she said, nodding. "I was waiting for you. You left early."

 

"I didn't even have time to unpack."

 

Bono gathered Ali in his arms, breathing in the scent of her hair. "I've missed you, honey." He laid a small kiss on the corner of her lips, and she sighed.

 

Bono’s hands slid to the small of Ali’s back, and she looked into his eyes with a gentle smile. But that smile faded slightly as she noticed something other than joy in her husband's face.

 

"What's wrong, Bono?” Ali asked, concern creasing her brow.” Did you have an argument with someone?"

 

"It's nothing,” he said, brushing off her worry and imbuing his voice with warmth.“I'm happy to see you."

 

"It's Larry again, isn't it?"She had seen the same expression in the previous months. It was there every time Bono told her about Larry’s unusual behavior.

 

Bono only smiled tenderly as he brushed Ali’s cheek with the back of his hand. He kissed her again. His desire was building every second they stayed in each other’s arms. Ali looked down at the coffee table where Bono had left the portfolio.

 

"What's that?"

 

"Something I want you to see tomorrow... because  _right now_ -" he kissed her jawline all the way down to her neck- "we've got more important things to do."

 

Ali giggled mischievously as she turned to take the stairs. Bono watched her hips sway in perfect rhythm as she made her way to the second floor. It was a promising night, he wanted to make worth the wait.

 

 

***

 

As the sun rose over the horizon, it filled the kitchen where Bono and Ali were taking their breakfast. She looked at the drawings between mouthfuls of her fried eggs. Bono watched his wife closely, impatient to hear what she had to say.

 

"Hmmm, these are very good," she said, and then clarified upon seeing Bono’s confused expression. "I meant the drawings. I can't imagine why Larry was so negative about them."

 

"It's because I don't spend as much time with the band as I should. I swear, babe... I'm trying so hard to write those lyrics, it's just... I don't want to go there. I've been having dreams about my mother lately. Not good dreams, I'll have you know."

 

“Yes,” Ali said, eyeing him."I heard you mumbling in your sleep last night."

 

"I was probably cursing Laurence.” Bono grimaced at his tea. "Sugar? Ali, I haven't been using sugar for months."

 

"Sorry. I'll get you another cup of tea." She stood up, but he grabbed her wrist before she could walk to the counter.

 

"Come here...” Bono pulled Ali against him. His arm wrapped around her waist as he pressed his head against her belly. "I don't need more tea; I just need you."

 

The hint of a laugh filled Ali’s voice. "I love you too.” She bent over and kissed his forehead. "But I need to get ready. I'm meeting Adi to go over our schedule for next week. And then I'm going to see my father."

 

"I thought we were spending the whole day together. I'll be back in New York by

tomorrow."

 

"We can go dinner tonight," she suggested, walking out of the kitchen. "I'm gonna shower. Call Jordan and ask her about her friend."

 

"You think that's a good idea?" Bono asked Ali, rising from the table and following her. 

 

"Yes. Why not? Those drawings are really good. If she's that good as a photographer, you'll have everything sorted out."

 

Bono stopped before entering the master bedroom. He remained pensive as Ali entered the bathroom. There was no need to call Jordan, he had Florence's last name. How many girls named Florence Lewis could there be?

 

 

 

"More than 200 hits?! What the fuck?!" Bono shouted with his eyes locked on the screen.

 

"What's wrong?" Ali had already gotten out of the bathroom and was now getting dressed. She wrapped her hair in a towel as she walked to the study where Bono had been looking for any clue of Florence on Facebook.

 

"This is insane, honey! There are more than 200 matches for Florence Lewis!"

 

"You've seen her,” Ali pointed out.“If you look for the ones living in New York I'm sure

you'll find her."

 

"Oh boy! I feel like a stalker," Bono declared, but his eyes didn't leave the screen. 

 

"Then just wait 'til you're back in New York."

 

"I'm running out of time, Ali. We're running out of time. And I want to show Larry that my idea's not a waste."

 

"Okay. I still think you gotta relax." She kissed him on the top of the head. "Don't make an obsession out of this."

 

As Ali got ready for her lunch meeting with Adi Roche, Bono spent almost forty-five minutes scrolling through name after name. He hated computers when it came to reading anything. Straining his eyes wasn't a good idea, and his health didn't help much either. The tiny letters, and brightness of the screen made him want to throw the laptop out the window. 

 

Once Ali was ready to go, she kissed Bono and left. The boys weren't supposed to be back from their friend's until Sunday afternoon. That meant the place was all Bono’s for the next few hours. He had planned to take Ali to Cavistons for a nice dinner. In the meantime, he was racked with impatience. He realized that if Florence had been so discreet about her drawings, she wasn't going to post her photographs on Facebook either.

 

 

***

 

 

"Florence Lewis," Bono read, "born in Florida and currently living in New York City."

 

He remembered Jordan saying something about Florida. It was hard to

see her face in the profile picture, but he kept scrolling down. There were plenty of literature related posts. Apparently she liked Yeats and William Blake. A reference to Songs of Innocence and Experience! _How funny,_ Bono thought. It had been suggested as a potential title for the new album.

 

He changed from scrolling with the mouse to tap the down arrow key. He squinted at the several posts made by friends. There weren't many of them, but those who posted did so very often, and seemed to be very close to her. There were a few posts about politics, but he could see that she wasn't very interested in that subject. Or she wanted to stay away from it? He couldn't say for sure. He refreshed the page.

 

_"Thank You, Lord, for the Internet!"_

 

Florence was online and she was posting. She had just shared a video: Patti Smith at CBGB: A Night to Remember. Bono was tempted to comment on her post, but he was using the band's official account to go over her wall. He couldn't possibly do such thing. Such an action was like parachuting into a river full of hungry alligators. It would certainly draw the attention of many fans, and that was not what he wanted. He would get the band into a messy situation, and push Florence away from the chance of working with U2.

 

At last, Bono called Jordan. “I really need a favor.”

 

"I can't steal anything else from my friend," his daughter joked. "What can I do for you, Mr. Dad?"

 

"Uhm... your friend, Florence. Do-- do you know if she's on Instagram?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And I assume you've seen what she shares."

 

"She's under the name BelieveOrExplode." Jordan didn't have to be a fortune-teller to know what her father was looking for. Jordan wasn't stealing anything; Instagram was a public site. But Florence kept her profile private. And Jordan was sure that she was going to get very angry for what she was about to do.

 

“There’s another way for you to see her posts,” Jordan suggested.

Seconds later, Bono typed his daughter's user name and password as she dictated.

 

"Dad," Jordan pleaded, "please, please, do not post anything. Not even a comment. If Florence finds out that I gave you access to her photos she'll kill me."

 

"I have to show them to the guys one way or another. Eventually, Florence has to find out that I saw her photographs."

 

She gave in. "Okay. Do whatever you have to do to show Brian that she's way better than his stupid ass."

 

Bono smiled. That was exactly what he had in mind. He said goodbye to his daughter and hung up.

 

As he typed Florence's alias into the search box, his heart pounded. Striking the keys, his hands shook. Bono stopped for a second and stared at the name before hitting the button. _Interesting…_ He had been excited about other photographers' work before, but never like this. The first three photographs he saw made him quiver with amazement. _Edge has to see this,_ he thought as he clicked on the next one. He couldn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth as he closed the laptop and walked out of the room.

 

"Fuck Larry and his photographer. _This_ is my girl."


	4. She Belongs to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all who stops by to read. I do not own the people in this fic, except the original characters. Feedback appreciated! Hope you enjoy... x
> 
> Lyrics by Bob Dylan
> 
> P.S. Looking for beta :)

  
"She's got everything she needs  
She's an artist, she don't look back  
She can take the dark out of nighttime  
And paint the daytime black."

 

Florence woke up, and the first thing she did was look at her phone. Brian on his side, snoring. She hadn't heard him sliding into bed, probably after midnight. She’d fallen asleep listening to U2, she’d been making a habit of that. Her nightmares weren’t returning at least. Was the music the reason for that? She didn't know, but it was a good sign. In any case, she wasn't going to call Bono yet. Rolling onto Brian, she slipped one hand under his t-shirt. He was warm. She tried to fall asleep again. Nevertheless, whenever she closed her eyes, it wasn’t her own breath that she heard, but the voice of the man who was still looking for the face he had before the world was made. She had so many questions, and he was only a phone call away.

 

Nothing like a cup of coffee to start her day. Florence got up carefully, and walked to the kitchenette. She had to be at the Hammond’s before eleven, but she wasn’t in the mood to teach, and maybe calling in sick was the best idea after all. She could spend the rest of the day with Brian. He had promised to take her out and make it up for all those times he’d gotten a call from the magazine during the last two months.

 

The muffled sound of a cellphone told Florence that all her plans were about to go to hell. Brian’s voice confirmed her suspicions. Taking a deep breath, she forgot about the coffee and went to the bathroom to take a shower. She had to get ready to go to the Hammond’s.

 

***

 

Dinner at Cavistons was fine. Bono was glad to spend some time alone with his wife. No cellphones; no kids pestering. As they talked about their projects, family, and work, Bono felt happy to be able to open up to someone for the first time in the last few months; but they ended up going home early because Ali wasn't feeling well.

 

The stillness of the evening felt suffocating to Bono, who kept turning over in bed, trying to find some comfort. His pillow was too warm to bear, but he couldn’t switch. Ali never used hers, but tonight she had her arms wrapped around it. She was soundly asleep. He stared at her for a bit, and wished he was the God damn pillow. Unlike the previous night, he fell asleep missing her body on his.

 

The following morning, Ali woke up with Bono’s arms wrapped around her. He was supposed to leave for New York in a few hours, but she couldn't wait until he was up to say goodbye. She had another meeting, and picking up the kids at their friend's was the next task on her list. She kissed his forehead and left.

 

It was a quarter past eleven when Bono opened his eyes. He didn't see Ali, just a sticky note on her pillow.

 

_And there she goes again._

 

He took a deep breath and got up. It was going to be a very long day. Grabbing the post-it, he crumpled it and tossed it to the wastebasket. It was becoming a habit, he noticed. Crumpling papers and tossing them, just like Alison unintentionally running away from him. He thought of his day one more time. He remembered he had to share a plane with Larry for a few hours, and after their argument, he didn't find it pleasant at all. He toyed with the idea of showing Florence's photographs to the rest of the band. But maybe it was better to wait until they were back in New York.

 

Florence's photographs. He barely managed to keep them out of his mind. As he had his toasts and tea for breakfast, thoughts of Florence came to his mind.

 

She was struggling, and he could see that everywhere in her work. But what was she struggling with? Was she fighting her past? Or was she running away from it? Was she afraid of the future, and the possibilities it could bring? Judging by what Jordan had told him, Bono was almost certain that Florence’s boyfriend had something to do with it. But he knew that deep down there was a light that Florence didn't want to get rid of. And she wasn't aware of it just yet. He felt the urge to turn that light on. He felt it, because he knew the reason. She was a stranger, but he had already seen her naked. Every time Bono gazed at her drawings, he saw the beautiful nakedness of Florence's soul. And that spoke to him more than she had the afternoon they met in his apartment.

 

He glanced at his watch. It was too late. He had to get ready for the flight. Getting out of his clothes, he entered his bathroom for a nice long shower. The water trickled down his body, carrying all his thoughts with it down the drain. Bono forced himself to stop worrying about work, at least until he was back in New York. He was exhausted, and he still had to endure an hour in a car.

 

 

The ride to the airport was smooth enough for Bono to relax. He leaned on the back seat, and closed his eyes as music played through his headphones. David Bowie’s “The Man Who Sold the World” still mesmerized him every time. His palm against his thigh beat the rhythm. He counted every second.

 

Everything between the last note of the song and the airplane’s take-off went almost unnoticed to Bono.

 

The sky was bright as he stared up at the sun through the window. Edge sat next to him, but he was quiet with his eyes closed. His headphones were on, likely playing something he had recorded over the last few days. Bono opened his mouth to speak to him, but he thought twice, and beckoned the flight attendant over. He need a drink; something strong. Larry and Adam were almost whispering three seats away from them. Bono couldn't hear a word. Not that he needed to, but he was curious whether they were discussing his idea. Finally, giving way to his tiredness, Bono closed his eyes and tried to get more sleep. Soon enough they were going to land.

 

“Mariana wasn't happy with this trip. But she has to understand that we've got no time to waste,” Adam told Larry.

 

“It was good seeing the kids. Aaron was nicer than the last time we saw each other. Puberty, you know. At least it was better than the band's last meeting.”

 

“Larry.” Adam looked his friend right to his eyes. “The girl is really good.”

 

“Bono's trying to distract us. He hasn't finished those lyrics. Every time we hit the studio we make changes to the rest of the songs, but he always avoids that one. That “Wolves” song we changed twice last week! I wonder if he really gives a shit about the album.”

 

“Give him the benefit of the doubt, at least,” Adam said. “You're being too foocking harsh on him.”

 

“I know. I know,” Larry said shaking his head, and stared at his knees. “But... are we going to do this? Or are we going to go round in circles for another five years. We've got people who trust us. People who've been waiting for us, and people that pay loads of money traveling to see us perform live. I think it's only fair to finish this album.”

 

“I get your point, Lars. But we're not going to finish it if you keep doing this. You've got to change your strategy, and you know it. Bono doesn't work better or faster under pressure. He gets a mess, a bloody mess.”

 

Adam put on his sleep mask and reclined his seat. Larry's sight kept locked on the outside.

 

“I just want him to take this seriously. A totally unknown girl who can draw? Really, Adam?”

 

“You never know, Mullen, you never know.”

 

Larry glanced at Adam; he looked comfortable, and ready for a nap. Thinking it might be a good idea, Larry put on his sleeping mask too. He had a lot to think about and plenty of time before the plane touched American soil.

 

***

 

The taste of the latte was like shock therapy. She always stopped by the same café before work. Since it was near the Hammond's, she thought of it like killing two birds with one stone. Brian had left a few minutes after the phone call, which had just upset her.

 

The last sip lingered as long as the final notes of the harmonica in the song she was listening. _Cry without weeping. Talk without speaking. Scream without raising your voice._ She knew those words would be stuck in her head for the rest of the day. As she’d discovered, that was one of the side effects of Bono’s lyrics, and it wasn’t that bad.

 

Taking the headphones off, she flicked through her iPhone, looking for new emails. There was one from her sister. More than two years separated them. When Florence decided to leave Florida, she found it difficult to leave her elder sister behind, but Joanne didn't want to move. She had already settled down despite everything that her family had gone through. If they could still call it a family. Joanne got married and formed her own family when she was twenty years old. Florence had always thought that it had been her sister’s way to run away from the past. The same past that kept her from doing the same.

 

In her email, Joanne asked Florence to spend Christmas with her family in Florida. The kids missed their aunt. The feeling was mutual, but The Sunshine State was more like a dark Calvary to Florence. While thinking about the offer, a text message popped up—Jordan.

_Phoned Dad already? He's driving me! xxx_

 

Smiling, she shook her head and typed back.

 

_Haven't made my mind yet. Sorry. xoxo_

 

Florence didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but one of the women at the table next to her was giving a speech for all Manhattan to hear on how she’d found lipstick on her husband’s shirt. Apparently, work had always been a façade, and the guy had a second family. Luckily, the women were about to leave. But what she had heard left her mind going overdrive. She wasn't sure she was comfortable with the direction her relationship was taking. Brian had a lot of work to do lately. He kept promising her time to spend together, but so far she had only been disappointed. Over and over.

 

Was it really disappointing?

 

If it wasn't for those women's conversation, she wouldn't have even noticed her current situation. She _did_ notice that it didn't bother her as much as it would have two months earlier. She'd been too focused on her drawings and the music she had recently discovered.

 

She looked at her watch. 10:46. She was still on time. Leaving a twenty on the table, she grabbed her bag and left.

 

 

As usual, Mrs. Hammond wasn't at home, and her husband had left for a business trip to London. Hayley spent most part of the lesson excusing herself to go to the bathroom, but Florence could hear her phone chiming in the distance; the girl was obviously chatting with her friends. Any other time, Florence would have established some order, but today wasn’t a good day. She couldn’t care less about teaching. After all, her own phone had been her center of attention over the last few days. Today was not that different. So, after leaving Hayley an assignment for their next meeting, she left.

 

 

When she got home, her head span. It was like a decision hangover. And the drop that spilled the drink was that conversation she’d overheard. Too many things to think about: Florida, Brian, the diamond ring she wore now. Bono. His voice wouldn't leave her head. Even when she stopped the music, his words kept dancing on her lips. And her eyes kept wandering to her phone.

 

***

 

“I think it's your phone, Bono,” Adam told his friend. They were finally at JFK.

 

“Where did I leave it?” he asked, patting his thighs and behind. It wasn't in his pockets.

 

“I think it's in your bag,” Larry motioned to Bono's luggage.

 

“Oh right! I'll be right back,” as he grabbed the phone, he looked for a quiet place.

 

“Damn! I’m starving.” Edge excused himself. “I’ll go get something to eat.”

 

 

 

Florence thought that calling Bono might be a bad idea. His phone kept ringing but there was no answer. Maybe he was busy. Or he didn't pick up unknown calls. Maybe...

 

“Hello?” a voice said from the other end. Her train of thought crashed against it.

 

“Mr. Hewson?”

 

He recognized the husky voice. How the hell could he remember a voice he'd only heard for a few minutes? Ridiculously enough, he knew it was Florence.

 

There was no answer.

 

“Mr. Hewson, is that you?”

 

He shook his head. It was taking him too long to respond.

 

“Yes, it's me. Who's speaking?” Even though he knew, there was a tiny margin of error, and he wanted to make sure he was right.

 

“Florence Lewis. We met a few days ago, I'm Jordan's...”

 

“Florence!” His face lit up like a struck match. “How’ve you been?”

 

“Good. You?”

 

“I've had better days,” he said with a frown. “But you've phoned. It means that you have a final answer.”

 

Florence hesitated. He wasn't asking, but it wasn't a demand either. The tone in his voice wanted to give something away, but he wouldn't let it. Was he pleading?

 

“So?” he tried to rush her into a decision, giving his voice a 180 degree turn.

 

“Are you in a hurry, Mr. Hewson? I can call later if you want.”

 

“I'm at the airport. We've just landed. But no, I'm just...”

  
“I've thought about our last conversation,” she interrupted him. It was a very annoying habit she knew she had to get rid of, but to Bono it seemed more like a challenge. “And...”

 

He could play her game as well.

 

“How about dinner? Tonight.” He was desperate to get an answer. And maybe he was just looking forward to seeing her. “No papers, no deadlines, no phones. Just a nice conversation about art... and music. Do you like music, Florence?”

 

She was confused. Why was he asking such things? Whatever... she answered.

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

That was all he needed to hear: a vocal confirmation that all that time he waited for a phone call wasn’t in vain. He took a deep breath as a smile tugged on the corner of his mouth.

 

“Dinner, then?”

 

“Lunch,” she said.

 

“Okay.” He waited for more information. The second syllable lingered for a while. He was willing to accept any condition.

 

“Tomorrow… if you’re free.”

 

“Bono, the car's waiting!”

 

Bono heard Adam’s voice but his brain ignored the actual words. He was trying to remember his schedule for the next day.  Florence waited for an answer.

 

“I–” he tried to speak but another voice interrupted him.

 

“Bono!”

 

Now it was Edge. For Christ’s sake! He ran his hand over his face in disbelief.

 

“Would you let me finish, God damn it?!?!” He turned and cried out. People around him were so immersed in their own worlds that no one noticed a hysterical rock star yelling at his band mates in the middle of JFK.

 

“Whatever,” Edge groaned. He turned to Larry and Adam. “Let's wait for him in the car.”

 

Bono's thoughts mutinied. Where was his assistant when he needed her? He tried to think faster; he had to give Florence an answer, and it couldn’t wait.

 

“Tomorrow's perfect!” He managed to say. He wasn't even sure if he was available, but he wasn't going to toss all his effort in the trash. “You choose where.”

 

“Listen, I have to go,” she said. Bono heard a distant voice calling her name. She wasn't alone, “I'm a bit busy now. I'll text you.”

 

“Okay, great. See you tomorrow, then.”

 

“Bye.”

 

“Have a...” but she was gone.

 

Slipping the phone into his pocket, Bono rubbed the back of his neck. He stretched his back before making his way outside. He was glad she called, especially because he wasn't even sure if she had remembered his offer.

 

He slammed the door shut when he entered the Lincoln MKT. He noticed his friends’ stares on him. It was a bit ridiculous, but he smiled at their poker faces.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing,” Adam shrugged casually.

 

Edge noticed that Bono looked less tired than when they'd landed. He wondered if it was all related to those drawings. His sudden change of mood came right after that phone call. Would this mean more trouble? He saw Bono pulling out his phone. Did anyone else notice that huge grin as he typed? It could only mean more arguments between Bono and Larry. Edge took a deep breath as he leaned back. He didn't mean to think out loud, but he did.

 

“Brace yourself. Something's on its way!”

 

“What?” Larry asked totally clueless.

 

Bono understood what his friend was talking about. A storm was coming. Once he talked to Florence, things might get a bit tough between him and Larry. Bono had decided to hire her, and there was nothing Larry and his stupid stubbornness could do about it.

 

“Yes, Edge, it's going be the hell of a week.” Showing the same grin, he closed his eyes and leaned back. He was going to get his own way. Once again.

 

 

 


	5. Meeting Up Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late, late, late...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for your comments! None of this is real. I only own the original characters.
> 
> Lyrics by U2

_“The ache in my heart is so much a part of who I am.”_

 

Bono's eyes were fixed on the light gray bubble on his phone's screen as he sipped his drink. Florence had told him she’d be at the restaurant by eleven in the morning. He looked at the numbers at the top of the screen. Twenty minutes past eleven. Before starting to feel like an idiot, he looked at her message again. She was just a bit late, he thought. It’s not as if Larry was right and he was just wasting the band’s time… and his own. A new notification appeared at the top of the screen. An email from his son. What could it be? He slid it down.

_Loading…_

Within seconds he read the text.

_We won today’s game. John._

He flipped down to see a picture of his two sons and his wife. They were smiling. John was dirty and sweaty in his uniform while Eli wore a grey hoodie. As he looked at Ali, he wondered who had taken the picture. It wasn’t definitely a selfie; both kids were embracing their mother and her arms were wrapped around their shoulders, protectively. She was smiling. Bono knew he was missing a lot, but there was nothing he could do about it. At least not now, that the band was trying so hard to get afloat. He looked at his youngest son, and he thought of his own mother. Bono saw her smile in John’s. He’d been thinking of her lately. More than usual. It’d been almost forty years since she had been gone, but the ache remained. He might not wear it on his sleeve, but he kept it in his breast pocket.

He was fourteen when he last saw her. He tried to fill the hole she'd left with music, and he got far beyond his wildest dreams. Yet, there was something missing. There would always be. He grabbed a pen from his shirt pocket. A napkin would do. With Edge’s melody wandering around his head, he scribbled down a few words.

_Long before the night the stars went out_

_I’m meeting you again._

He crossed out the pronouns. He felt the need to be closer to his mother, if only on a piece of paper.

_We._

He wrote down the words as he thought of Iris and her beautiful smile. The image of his mother had become so vivid in recent weeks. We , he thought and looked down again at the letters— apostrophe. He finished fixing the sentence.

_We’re meeting up again._

His attention was dragged from the napkin to his phone. A message. Florence?

_So sorry I’m late. Be there in 5. Florence._

_Don’t apologise. Now you owe me a ‘yes’ for an answer. B_

Bono left the phone on the table. Nursing his cocktail, he leaned back. He was willing to wait. He realized all he wanted in that moment was to see Florence. He felt there had been a lot of things that had been left unsaid in that first conversation.

***

After coming back from a morning session at the gym, Edge was surprised to see his wife at home.

“Hey! I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow,” he said and dropped a kiss on her lips.

“We wanted to surprise you.” Morleigh smiled. She saw concern all over her husband's face. “Tough morning, eh?”

“Tough week.” He sat on the couch. She followed. “Tough year.”

“How are things with Bono and Larry? Last time I spoke with you they were having quite an argument.”

“As usual, you know. Larry’s trying to encourage Bono to look back and write that song, the one about Bono’s mother. But Larry can be so black and white… He thinks Bono’s wasting our time.” He sighed deeply. “I don’t know... I feel awful.”

“Aw, honey…” She kissed his forehead.

“I’m afraid this is going too far. It is painful to Bono, but he knows he has to write that song. He _wants_ to write that song. Larry just doesn’t know how to deal with the situation. And on the other hand, Adam and I can just… sit and wait. What else?” He shrugged. “I’m doing my best, but what if it’s not enough. What if U2 is not U2 anymore, and we’re all just four fat-ass old men trying to stay relevant. I just—I just don’t know, Morleigh.”

“You guys will get through all this mess… like you always do. I don’t like seeing you so tense and… worn out,” she said with concern.

“I look haggard, don’t I.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Have you been sleeping, Dave?”

“Not much. You know I’m a night owl… and I’ve been working non-stop on the rest of the songs. The album’s almost finished.”

“That’s good!” She tried to cheer him up with a small squeeze and a gentle kiss on the corner of his lips. “You need to relax.”

She whispered.

“Maybe you could help me.” Edge raised an eyebrow. A kiss was all he wanted right now. He needed to feel he wasn’t alone; that he had someone he could count on. “I’ve missed you so much, honey. I was going insane.”

“Now I’m here.” She moved closer and kissed his neck. A gentle, but burning kiss that later died on his lips. “I missed you too. So, eating out tonight the four of us?”

“Sounds like a good plan. Where’re the kids?”

“Upstairs. They’re also worried about you.”

“Did they say anything?”

“They’re not kids anymore, Dave.”

“I’ll let them know that the band will be just fine, we've been on this ship for almost forty years,” he took a deep breath and smiled. “We made sure to buy ourselves water wings a while ago.”

“I hope so.”

 

***

 

Florence smoothed her red blouse as she entered the restaurant. She would have chosen a more casual place, but Bono had insisted on one of his favorites. He promised the best lox in town. She glanced at her watch as she followed the head waiter, who showed her the table.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Bono looked up when he heard her voice. Hastily, he stood up and held the chair for her.

“You’re here now,” he took his seat again. “Wine?”

“Just water, thanks.”

“Sparkling?”

“Whatever, as long as they don't charge for it.” He raised an eyebrow as she smiled slightly. He motioned to the waitress, and asked for a bottle of Evian, ever so stubborn. It wasn't long until Florence was pouring some water in her glass.

“So,” Bono hesitated. All he wanted was for Florence to take the offer. He couldn't explain why he needed her to say yes so badly. He watched how she sipped her water while he tried to form the words. This wasn’t normal. He wanted to bang his head against the table, over and over until he could string more than two words together; and talking about the water did not count.

“What did you think about my offer?”

“You don't beat about the bush, do you?”

“Should I?” He raised an eyebrow. “There's no time to waste. You need this job and I need your work.”

Noticing the reaction in Florence's face, he ran his palms over his face. He was seriously messing things up. He was sick of apologizing every time he talked to her. He knew it was probably wearing her out.

“I'm sorry. I don't know what's happening, lately. I'm not that...”

“Rude?”

“Florence, the last thing I want you to think of me is that I'm rude.”

“You're not trying very hard, are you?” She took a sip of her drink., and looked over the menu. She could only play his game for so long. Despite all the confusion, Florence felt there was something else behind Bono's behavior. She could give him the benefit of the doubt, but she had another option. She could just stand up and leave the restaurant. She'd have to deal with Jordan later.

“Florence,” he said, taking a deep breath. He found himself enjoying the way her name escaped his lips. “I know this is totally new for you, but trust me... I've been in the business for years now. It's been a long time since someone has reached me with their art. We've been dealing with photographers and designers to promote our new tour, but they just don’t get it. And then I met you and you just... blew my mind with your work.”

If the spark in his eyes was fake, then he was one hell of an actor. Florence's ears tried to catch all his words. He was too nervous to notice her gaze. His reputation as a good speaker was failing. She hadn't been aware of his stuttering and sudden struggle with words as he spoke, until the moment she made her mind. She didn’t want to trust him. She couldn’t trust him. Trust was dangerous; and from the beginning, Bono hadn’t proven to be reliable. He had, in a way, plotted with his daughter r to get Florence’s portfolio.

“I'm not the artist for you.”

“W– what?” He stared.

“Mr. Hewson, I told you the day we met that art and pressure don't get along very well in my life. I paint because I love to, not because I have to. And...”

“And you feel deep inside that the world won't like what you do.” She raised an eyebrow. His mouth was like a shotgun. A volley of shots was intended to shatter her stubbornness. She needed to believe in herself. His voice vas soft, but steady as he spoke. “Florence, people mock what they don't know. You don't paint for the world; you paint for yourself. You have a hole in your soul, and you fill it with your paintings. I don't know why, but I saw it the first time we met. I saw the pain in your eyes, and I'm seeing it now. I've got a hole too, and I fill it with songs.”

“I don't want to be spat on the face if my work doesn't seem good enough.”

“Nonsense,” Bono leaned forward on his seat; his elbows on the table. “Who said you're not good enough? Whoever said that knows nothing about art or passion. What you do is amazingly true. And that is what really matters, Florence. You can hide yourself behind a façade your entire life, but when you create art, you're being yourself. That's what happens when I write a song.” He tapped on the table with his first finger as he looked her in the eyes. “and that's exactly what happens when you paint. Think about it. You've got what you need. Show yourself what you're made of.”

“Mr. Hewson,” Florence said and sipped at her water. “You are very nice, but I don't think the world...”

“Fuck the world, Florence, pardon my French. You don't need the world.”

“There are so many people out there creating amazing art.”

“You don't get it, do you?” he chuckled.

“Get what?”

“It's not about the magnificence of the work you do. I mean, what makes anyone's work magnificent is the truth with which they create it. You write a song about your childhood, add truth to that and you've got a masterpiece; otherwise you'll have another silly pop song reaching #1 in Billboard's list. You'll get this as time goes by.”

He paused. He felt the sub-machine gun overheating. Maybe it was time to change strategy; give her some time to think while the ate. The best smoked salmon in town was waiting for them.

 

***

 

They ate, and Bono tried to organize his ideas. Florence didn’t speak much, at least not about herself. Bono asked about her life in Florida. She never took his bait. He tried asking her about painting. For how long had she been painting?

“Since I was a teenager,” she replied with a sweet edge in her voice. A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “My sister… she used to hang my paintings on the walls of her bedroom.”

“She still lives in Florida? Your sister.” His tone dropped an octave. The second he asked it he regretted it. He knew it was none of his business, but he couldn't help being curious. He thought she would avoid the question; he hoped she would. But instead, he heard her speak.

“Yes,” she said. He realized she'd noticed he wanted to apologize about such intrusion, but she didn't mind it.

Florence's voice was soft but steady; it reminded Bono of their first meeting. It was confident, and it was meant to build a wall between her and the world. It seemed that she was secretly desperate to be heard, but was afraid of being hurt. Bono sensed that trace of sadness in her tone; an air of mystery that haunted her words. Maybe her insecurities were chained to that past she refused to talk about. He wondered if he would be seeing ghosts where there were none. She was probably a very private person, and didn't feel the need to open up to a stranger.

In any case, Bono caught a few small details in the fraction of a second. Her shoulders had relaxed, and her expression had softened considerably. And there was a spark in her eyes, like fire reflected through polished amber stones... Could he call that spark trust ? He wasn't certain, but somehow, Bono knew he would see her again.

Nodding, he changed the subject. Too much awkward silence.

“You told me you like music, right?” he asked.

She nodded.

“What do you think of U2?”

“Let me be honest,” she said. “I have never cared about U2.”

The confession struck Bono’s ego. A part of him felt insulted, while the other felt even more intrigued by the woman sitting across from him. He downed his drink in one gulp, and waited for the buts.

“But I downloaded your albums a few days ago, and have been listening to your songs.”

He leaned closer. He didn’t want to cut off her words, for her eyes told him that there was more to be said.

“Particularly, there’s a song that won’t leave my head, and I’d like to know more about it,” she said. “I felt somehow inspired by it. I didn’t google it, I wanted to hear it from you, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d be glad to tell you about it. Which one is it?”

“Tomorrow.”

His mind went back to the past. Again. All roads led to Cedarwood Road.

“I felt that truth. The truth you've been talking about is everywhere when I listen to that song. What's the story behind those lyrics?”

He took a deep breath. Just looking at his eyes, she knew the answer wasn't a secret for anyone, but it was uncomfortable for him to go there.

“I– I lost my mother when I was fourteen.” When he spoke, she felt a dagger pierce her heart. Her pulse got quicker. It was real; the pain in his voice was real. “Florence–”

“I'm sorry.” She held back her tears.

“It's okay,” he said. She really was sorry. Many people used to say the words like going through the motions; Florence didn't. At least not this time. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. “It was a long time ago.”

“Such wounds never heal.”

Straightening up without looking away from her, he felt his head fill with questions without answers. He wanted those answers. He needed them. Florence was truly affected by his words. Why? Did it have to do with her past in Florida? A past she tried hard not to talk about?

But Bono had to be careful. It was probably a sensitive topic, and he didn't want to provoke her.

“You're right.” He took a deep breath. “My father never talked about her. We didn't talk about her. I was so angry at the world... I guess I used music as a way of escape. A way to fill that hole my mother left in my heart when she passed away.”

His voice deepened.

“Could you take your sunglasses off, please?” she asked. She needed to look into his eyes, somehow they lightened he burden she carried with her. He took them off and hung them in the neck of his shirt. As he looked at her with naked eyes, he wished she saw the real Bono. “Thank you. It's better to look into your eyes rather than a pair of sunglasses.”

“And it's easier talking to you when you drop your defenses.”

She shrugged. “Everybody hides themselves in their own way. You cover your eyes… I cover my soul.”

“I'm not going to hurt you, Florence.” His words were pure, the feeling too. He'd been trying to gain her trust for hours, if not for days. Maybe it was a matter of saying the simplest words, he thought.

“It's part of human nature. People hurt you; and if they don't, they leave.”

“No, don’t say that...” his words were almost a whisper. He wanted to cover her hand with his. But he restrained himself. She might misunderstand it.

She said nothing as she thought of her past. Pain and farewells. Her life was full of those. She felt the urge to cry. Listening to him through a pair of headphones was an intense experience; but now that she'd heard his story, she felt the need of opening up about her past.

“She died when I was fifteen.”

No words. And no more questions haunting Bono. Both their lives where matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Now he knew what had torn the hole in her heart. Now he knew why he'd seen himself in her drawings.

“I'm sorry, I-”

“It’s funny…” She said, staring into space. It was no longer a stranger to whom she was talking anymore. She had so many things to say, and he wanted to hear them. He leaned forward once again. “I don't remember her smiling. She rarely did. She wasn't happy. A few memories come in flashes... I remember the smallest details, though. The sound of her voice...” she chuckled. “Her pancakes, and… the way she kissed me goodnight. That’s what I miss the most.

Bono saw a reluctant tear roll down her cheek. It died in the corner of her lips when she smiled slightly. A resignation gesture? There was no joy in her face.

“She was very proud of us... of my sister and I. She never told us to stop dreaming. She wanted me to be an artist because she knew I loved painting.”

“What did you do?”

She shrugged, looking down at her own trembling hands. “Nothing lasts forever. I buried all my dreams with her. No point in hoping for something impossible.”

He couldn't restrain himself anymore. Reaching out, he covered her hand with his. It was soft and warm. He gave it a little squeeze.

“Nothing is impossible, Florence.” Her name was easy on his lips. So pure, like reading the Holy Scripture. “My father tried to protect me from the world by advising me not to dream. But I did. That was the only thing I did. I failed sometimes, but I didn’t give up. What's the point of life if you can't dream? You're a great artist.”

She met his gaze. Of all the times he had praised her, this one felt the most real, and sincere. He had almost forgotten about his offer.

“I felt a connection when I first saw your drawings, even though I didn't know your story. I was touched. I want to help you, Florence Lewis,” he said, staring into her eyes. His voice was low and mellow. “Let me help you unbury all those dreams, and make them come true.”

“Help—”

Before Florence could say anything, she was interrupted by the ring of Bono's phone. Looking at the screen he saw his wife's name. Bono knew it could be important, but he didn't want to break that connection with Florence. He tapped on the ‘message’ icon and chose his first customized answer: ‘Busy’. He'd call Ali later.

“It could be important,” she said.

“I'll return the call later. I'm in a business meeting now. Were you going to give me an answer?” his eyes pleaded. He was dying to give this conversation a new direction.

“I've never had a job like this one. That's a huge responsibility.”

“Yes, you're right. You won't have time for anything else. You'll have to work hard, won’t get much sleep, and will get thousands phone calls in one day. You’ll breathe U2’s music. In dreams begin responsibility.”

“Yeats?”

“Schwartz. He used Yeat’s line as the title for one of his short stories. I stole the line myself and used it in one of our songs… Schwartz’s book was on my mind when I was writing the lyrics.”

“I haven’t read him.”

“Like to read as well?”

“Not as much as I like to paint, but I certainly do.”

“I have a few books I’d like to give you. I know you’ll enjoy them very much.”

“I’ll gladly read them,” she said as a smile tugged on the corner of her lips.

He stared at her for a minute in surprise. He went on about novels and poems that had shaped his life. Her eyes were locked on his as if her life depended on his next sentence. He relished having her complete attention. Forget about large venues full of people screaming your name, he told himself, Florence's eyes on him revived the confidence he had to find every night he got onstage. Suddenly, it occurred to him that there was one thing he didn't yet know.

"Pardon me for asking, but how old are you?"

Florence chuckled slightly.

"How old are _you_?" She asked.

"I asked first, but... How old do you think I am?"

"Hmm, I don't know... Sixty-two, maybe?"

His smiling eyes squinted.

"W— What?"

"You asked." She shrugged. She wanted to laugh at his astonished face. She was starting to realize Bono's weak point: his ego.

"I'm in my early fifties," he said.

"I'm in my early thirties."

"Touché!" He finished his wine. "Fifty-four."

"Thirty-three."

“Oh, but you are a baby,” his eyes lit up.

“Were you a baby at thirty-three?”

"No, just a naïve old man with short legs."

He sighed and leaned back trying to recapture that feeling. There was still some innocence in his look when he smiled. Fifty-four . His eyes didn’t show his age; they look like those of a reborn Phoenix. She had just met him, nevertheless his eyes spoke to her in tongues, not about those times he said he’d failed, but of all the times he had risen from the ashes. Those sapphire razor eyes relieved her of any lingering doubt

“Okay. I'm gonna do it.”

“Do what?” Bono knew what she was talking about, but he wanted to hear her say it.

“I'm gonna work for you.”

“Not for me, with me.”

“Good. Let's draw up a contract, then.”

“Easy love,” he chuckled. “Don't show your claws just yet.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize, because if it ever gets to the point where you owe me an apology, I will already have dropped you like a hot potato.”

“You know,” the tone of her voice changed abruptly, “I had my reasons when I said I didn't trust you the day I met you.”

“And I don't intend to change your mind... yet.” He grinned.

“Dessert?”

 

***

 

Bono was glad that she let him order his favorite for the both of them. After those minutes of deep confessions, they each felt a burden had been lifted off their shoulders. He saw her laugh at his funny remarks, with a childish enthusiasm. They fell into easy conversation that lasted long after their plates were empty. Music being the main topic, Bono was curious about Florence’s favorite artists.

“Patti Smith,” she said.

“Interesting.” He recalled her post on Facebook.

“Her music’s the reason why I left Florida… Her voice has this thing about it. Freedom, I think. It must be it. You know the feeling, don’t you? I mean, I don’t know if you like her music.”

He nodded. For once in his life, he wanted to listen rather than talk.

“Her music is the closest I’ve been to being free. I’ve never been free… I don’t think I’ll ever be, actually. But I got rid of some heavy chains when I came to Ney York--”

“W— Why do you say you’ll never be free?”

“Dylan says not even birds are free, they’re chained to the skyway. That’s what my past is… the sky above me, and I’ll be chained to it for the rest of my life. That’s it,” she said, looking at her watch. “It’s two-thirty, I think we should be going.”

“Thought you were enjoying my company.” He winked.

“I had lovely time.” She smiled. “You’re a nice conceited man, Mr. Hewson.”

“Is that a compliment?”

She chuckled. “Oh, no… that’s a fact.”

 

***

 

“When will I see you again?” Bono asked as he opened the taxi’s door for her.

“You’re the boss.”

“No, I’m not… I’m your future business partner.”

“Does your band know that you just hired me?” she asked with concern. “Do they even know I exist? You told me you were looking for photographers.”

“Oh, our drummer got one… The guy's not bad, but he's too predictable. I don't think he's got the guts. I’ll talk to my bandmates, and to our manager. He will sort out the contract issue.”

“Okay, then just give me a call when you’ve everything sorted out.” She paused. “I never thought I’d say this but, it was nice talking to you.” She got in the cab, and he closed the door. Leaning into the window, he gave her a peck on the cheek.

“You’re an angel, Florence. I wish we could spend another two hours chatting. But I know we’ll have time for that. Maybe I can tell you the stories behind some of my songs, I’d trade them for the stories behind your eyes, the ones you project on your canvases.”

She smiled tenderly. He was all charm. “See you, Mr. Hewson,” she said, putting on her Wayfarers as she waved him goodbye.

In any other time, with any other person, except for his family and closest friends, Bono couldn’t have waited for the business lunch to be over; yet now he craved for more time with Florence. Two hours. Half an hour. Ten more minutes. There was no way she could put him off. A few days ago she had been a blank page to him; today he found some lines written on that page, and he wanted to discover more. An interesting story to Bono’s questioning soul.

As he tried to get a taxi, people turned to look at him, some hesitated before approaching him to ask for autographs or his picture. Women tried to kiss him, while men patted him on the back. He smiled, even though he was tired. You’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do. It was part of the job, and he knew it. He usually didn’t mind being the focus of attention, but today he just wanted to get home and finish the lyrics. All he could think of now was his mother. After a few minutes he finally decided to stop a cab.

“Thanks a lot, folks. See you soon!” he said, getting in the car.

 

***

 

_The smallest details. Details._

Florence’s words whirled around in his mind even after he’d gotten home. He plopped down on one of the couches, and stared at the ceiling for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes that felt like hours. He had a feeling that there was more behind Florence’s story. What would it be?

He got up and walked to the bar. After pouring himself a whiskey, he returned to the living room and sat on the couch again; took a sip and put the glass next the telephone, on the coffee table. His acoustic guitar still lay on one of the seats from the night before when he’d tried to finish the song. He didn’t need to pull the napkin out of his pocket, for he remembered the words. He recalled what he had last written.

_We’re meeting up again._

He pulled out his phone and tapped on the voice memos app. He knew he was never going to be able to repeat the words he was about to say. He tapped on the red button, and sang. Parts of the lyrics he had written long before. Suddenly it was like a jigsaw falling into place. The old ones and the new ones. Months of a murderous writer’s block were about to be unleashed. Words flowed from his mind out of his mouth. He thought of Ali. He thought of his children. He thought of his mother. His mother. His mother. Iris… Iris… Iris… Iris… Her named hurt on his lips. But he held on tight to it if only for a few minutes. Iris… Iris…

_Iris standing in the hall_

_She tells me I can do it all_

_Iris wakes to nightmares_

_Don't fear the world it isn't there_

_Iris playing on the strand_

_She buries the boy beneath the sand_

_Iris says that I will be the death of her_

_It was not me_

“It was not me. It was not me…” Tears came in a flood, burning the back of his throat and clouding his blood-shot eyes. All the years he’d avoided thinking of Iris’ death, all the memories splintered in the walls of his soul… all came back to him like gale-force winds lashing the coast. Smashing the guitar against the floor, he folded to his knees and cried. He cried over his mother, and cried over his father. He cried like he hadn’t cried in years. “It was— it wasn’t me. Not me. Where are you?” He wasn’t sure who he was talking to, but he wished it was his mother. Wrapping his arms around himself, he lay flat on his back. His phone was still recording, but he didn’t care. With his eyes closed, he could only whisper. “Hold me close… Iris.”


	6. Tomorrow's On Its Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Songs of Innocence is released.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thank you for reading. I really hope you're enjoying it as much as I enjoy writing it. This story isn't true. Here is Chapter 6...chapter 7 on its way. Enjoy!

_“ There’s always new songs to sing.”_

  
“…Let me just get this right,” Bono said addressing to Apple’s CEO Tim Cook. Some of the people present in Apple’s headquarters for the launch of the iPhone 6 roared with laughter. Wearing coal colored sunglasses, Bono stepped back and broke eye contact with Cook. Looking at the floor, he went on with his statement. “U2’s album Songs of Innocence is going out for free to a half a billion people in the next five seconds. Five…”

 

Cook joined him for the countdown.

 

“Four. Three. Two. One…” Joining their fingers in the air, they both smiled, so did Edge, Adam and Larry. The crowd cheered and applauded and their pictures were taken. 

 

“Wow!” Bono said, still smiling. “That’s instant gratification. Thank you to everyone at the Apple team. This is a very, very big deal for us. It’s kind of our core, our DNA… the clue is in the name. We really do. We put everything we have into this, and it’s our most personal record so… thank you. Thank you, thank you so much.”

 

Finally, the agreement had been sealed and  _Songs of Innocence_ was out for everyone to listen. What would be people’s reaction? 

  


***

“I have to go. I’m late for the special U2 cover shoot.” Brian grabbed his bag. “It’s been almost two weeks since they gave that album for free and everyone has lost their minds. Kind of trending topic now.”

 

Florence shrugged. “What’s the big deal?” She took a bite from an apple as she leaned against the kitchen counter. She hadn’t heard from Bono since their business lunch. The band must have decided to go with their original photographer. She knew it was likely to happen. Bono was a famous rock star; he could have whatever artist he wanted to work for him. Why would he choose her?

 

Brian halted before reaching the front door. “The big deal? Florence, honey…” Frowning, he turned and approached his fiancée. “They’re the biggest band in the world.” 

 

“No, they’re not,” she said casually. She kissed Brian, who stared into space, trying to understand her mind.

 

“Honestly… have you been living under a rock?” He shook his head. “No wonder you haven’t been able to draw anything worthy in the last three months. Stop listening to that creepy music of yours, Florence, otherwise you’ll always be the tutor who sketches suicidal teenagers.”

  
And _that_ was probably the reason why Bono hadn’t called her. Florence was taken aback by the comment, and even though she tried to hide her embarrassment, Brian noticed it. It was then when her phone chimed— a text message. Brian took a peek at it.

  
_We need to talk._

  
“ Jo’s dad?” he read aloud. “Why is your friend’s father texting you?”

 

“Uhm, I’m sure it’s Jordan. Her phone’s battery’s always dead.”

  
“Hmm, ‘kay. See you tonight, then. Have fun with your…” He gave a quick look at her drawing board. “London bare street?”

  
She wrinkled her nose and forced a smile. “Yeah…”

 

“Oh, almost forgot… I’ll probably get a word on the job offer today. Cross your fingers… it could be something big.” 

  
“Good luck, baby.”

  
Blowing her a kiss, he shut the door.

  


***

 

The door to the studio was closed. Brian heard laughter coming from the other side, and he instantly recognized Heather’s voice, she wasn’t alone. Brian knocked and waited for someone to answer. And knocked again. Heather’s assistant opened the door with a smile on her face, but he barely noticed it. His eyes were fixed on the four men who were sitting back on a couch, apparently having a nice conversation with his boss and the interviewer while the make-up artist did his job.

 

“Hello, Brian,” the tall young woman said. His attention was brought to her, and he returned the greeting.

 

“Hi, Lena.” 

 

Although he had always been aware of her endless flirting, he’d never considered going beyond a wink. Lena was on her way out. With a smile, she walked off towards the elevator. 

  
Brian closed the door behind him. It was a small room with a leather couch and two matching armchairs. Probably half a hundred photographs of different celebrities hung in the walls, and a flat screen TV set showed a muted news channel. Most part of the gear was set up. Brian had left the studio around two in the morning the previous night. Feeling that he needed to be in control, he’d taken care of every single detail.

 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Brian said. Adam and Edge were in deep conversation with the interviewer, but they took a moment to return the greeting. Heather chatted with Bono as one of the make-up artist slightly powdered his face. The cheerful young man could barely manage to take his eyes off Larry, who stood up to shake Brian’s hand as he approached them.

  
“You certainly overslept,” Heather said playfully, but she shot him one of her famous –we’ll talk later– looks.

  
“Actually, you’re just in time,” Larry said. “We’re almost done with the interview. How’ve you been, mate?”

 

“Everything good. You?”

 

“Well you know the news… some people want our heads.”

 

“So, you two know each other?” Bono asked suspiciously. He looked askance at his two other friends. Heather didn’t look surprised. 

 

“Oh, right… Bono this is Brian, the photographer I told you about.”

  
Edge and Adam held their breaths as Bono stood up. Owen, the makeup artist stepped aside. 

 

“Nice to meet you, Bono.” Brian smiled stretching his hand. His reaction and body language struck Bono as sickening and suffocating, like that of a rattlesnake trying to wind round his neck. He didn’t want to be a killjoy, so he shook the young man’s hand; a sloppy hand that squeezed his longer than necessary.

  
“Likewise.” Bono answered releasing himself from Brian’s grip. Trying to avoid for the scene to turn more uncomfortable than it already was, Adam cleared his throat. He didn’t like noisy silences.

  
“Shall we continue?” He asked and turned to the interviewer who was sitting right next to Edge. “Sally here was asking us about the album.” 

  
Hiding his disappointment from the cold welcome, Brian turned to Sally and smiled at her. “Hi, Sal.” The middle-aged woman returned the gesture.

 

“Hi. Actually, I— I’m almost done.” The blond woman

 

“Well, lady and gentlemen,” Heather said as she stood up. “I’m going now to leave you alone. It was really nice seeing you again, Bono. I talked to Ali on the phone a few weeks ago.”

 

“Hmm, and I was wondering why my ears were burning,” he said playfully. 

 

“Nonsense, you spoiled rotten rock star. You know we love you.” Chuckling, she nudged him.

  
“Good to see you too, Heather.” Bono kissed her cheek. Finally, Heather left the room and Bono took a seat on the other side of Edge.

 

“Maybe Sally could finish the interview while I set up my gear,” Brian offered. “It won’t be—”

 

A phone chimed.

  
“It’s me. Sorry,” Bono said pulling his iPhone out. It was a text message. His eyes switched from the screen to Sally, almost pleading.

  
She couldn’t help but smile. “Go ahead, we’ve done this before. I’m sure they can handle this last question. You can catch up with it in a bit.”

  
“ _You_ , Sally Stevens, deserve a monument.” As soon as he said the last word, his eyes locked on the screen. If she asked the question, he didn’t hear a thing. He blocked every external sound or vision as he read the message.

  
_Okay, but no lox or Evian. This time I’ll choose the place, and it’s on me. Let me know when you’re free._

 

Edge didn’t mean to, but he had a quick look at his friend’s phone. Bono rubbed the knee of his own trousers with one hand while re-reading the message. His smile could have lit up Manhattan. Edge couldn’t believe he was the only one noticing that the mood-uplifting phone calls and messages were becoming a habit. This time, he got to read the name at the top of the screen. Who the hell was Florence? Edge averted his eyes before Bono caught him.

 

“Okay. What did I miss?” Bono asked putting the phone back to his pocket. “What was the question?” 

  
“The album release, of course!” Sally chuckled. “The way I see it, it was kind of experimental, maybe I’m wrong. What led you to— uhm, to take that risk? It was a very bold move… teaming with Apple to make _Songs of Innocence_ available for free to every iTunes user.” 

 

“It’s all about megalomania,” Bono sniggered. “And a bit of an experiment, yes. Seriously… we poured our lives into those songs over the last few years, and we feared they might not be heard. We had to get a bit noisy ourselves to get through all the noise out there.”

  
“I really love the album,” Sally said. “I think those are very personal songs. Very powerful ones.” 

  
“That was the big deal about this album. Those are the most personal songs we’ve ever written…” Edge’s eyes fixed on Sally as he settled down on the couch. “And uhm— you know, nowadays, it’s very difficult to make people notice music. Every year, you see all of these albums coming and going without being noticed. Okay, maybe we’re not as vulnerable as other artists, because ours is a big, loyal fan base. But we’re interested in finding new fans as well. And right now it’s very difficult to go beyond your fan base, ‘cause there are all these things in competition, like, you know… social networking, gaming…” 

  
Bono grinned mischievously, and winked at Sally. “We couldn’t let kids leave college without knowing about U2.” 

 

She couldn't do anything but chuckle. Bono was all charm.

 

“Are we ready?” Brian asked.

  
“Okay, we're done... one more question, though. Will we get more U2 soon? We’ve all heard about the follow-up album.” Sally smiled. “Bono?”

  
“Oh, he’s the least trustworthy person to ask.” Larry’s huge grin mesmerized Owen, the make-up artist.

 

Brian tried to gain his attention. “Owen... Owen.” He noticed the young man's glare on the drummer. Brian couldn't have someone that distracted. “Owen!” 

  
Until he finally reacted. “Yes? Sorry...”

  
“I think we're good.”

  
“But... I thought—” 

  
“I said we're good. I'll have someone else take care. You can go now.” He dismissed it with a hand gesture.

 

Owen stared at the floor as he walked to the door. Edge, Larry and Adam were a little confused.  _Why was Brian being such a dickhead with the poor lad?_ Bono had taken out his phone again, and now he was typing. Sally was heading out as well. She thought about how disturbing Brian's behavior had been, so she decided she should say something.

 

“Want some coffee, Owen?” Sally offered, seeing the look on his face. “It's on me.” 

 

The young man appreciated the gesture with a tender smile, and nodded in response.

 

“See you, guys!” He said before leaving the room. “Nice to meet you.”

  
“Nice to meet you too, Owen.” Edge approached to shake his hand, as did Adam. When Larry got closer, Owen stepped back and looked at Brian. 

  
“See you, Mr. Mullen,” he said, and shook his hand firmly. His eyes switched to Bono. “Goodbye, Mr. Hewson!”

 

“Uh...” He was still immersed in his phone. “Are you leaving? Why? We aren't done yet. I still find interesting that you're into The Pixies.” His tone was

 

“Maybe next, time... I've got some things to do now. Duty beckons.” He chuckled. “It was really fun talking to you.”

  
“Same here. See you next time, then.” Bono approached and shook his hand as he patted his back.

  
Owen and Sally made their way outside, and she noticed his abashed expression. He was gazing at the floor, like a slave who’s been deprived of his clothes and forced to be on display like an item on sale.

 

“Owen— Owen, look at me…”

 

“I’m sorry, Sally. I didn’t mean to—”

 

“Hey, you did _nothing_ wrong. I was there the whole time and you did a great job. Don’t let Brian’s hostility towards people who are new around here affects you.”

 

“I didn’t mean to insult anyone. Now he will tell Heather I was being disrespectful. Oh, my God...I’m going to be kicked out!”

 

“Relax! No one is going kick you out, Owen. You weren’t being disrespectful. Now let’s go have a coffee, you certainly need one.” She smiled at him, as she punched in the lobby’s button. “And just ignore Brian. He’s got a thing for U2, everyone here knows that. And this is the first time he’s going to work with them, so… he’s feeling a bit edgy.”

 

The elevator’s door opened and they stepped inside.

 

“Want me to tell you something?” Sally showed a devilish grin.

  
The doors closed.

  
“ _Hell, yeah.”_

  


***

 

Adam leaned on a brown Ibanez bass guitar as Larry inspected the drum kit. Brian had decided to work with each one separately before making some group shoots. Bono and Edge stood behind the photographer as he instructed Adam to move three steps forward. 

 

Bono, for once, looked up from his phone for a second and his happy expression turned to a confused one when he witnessed what Brian was doing. He frowned and blinked twice, before nudging his friend.

 

“Edge,” he muttered. “Do you remember that magazine issue from—?”

  
“Y—ep.” 

 

“Isn’t this—?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Edge’s unshakable expression worried Bono.

 

“Is it possible that—?”

 

“Yes.” 

  
“Should we—”

 

“No.” 

  
“Why? What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Nothing.” Edge poker-faced at the whole scene. 

 

“Why don’t you let me—?”

 

“Because _you_ , Bono, have just won this war.”

 

“Humph!” Unable to figure out what his friend was talking about, Bono cocked his head and shrugged. 

 

“And _stop_ fidgeting with that fucking phone!”

 

Bono opened his mouth to say something, but it was then when he heard Brian’s low-pitched voice call his name.

  
“Bono, you’re next!”

 

“Here we go,” he muttered under his breath, and switched his brain to stand-by mode. He feared it would be a long day.

  


*******

 

The photoshoot didn’t last as long as they had expected. Everyone noticed Brian’s anxiety, but  _not_ everyone noticed his “tiny” slip. When it was over, Bono decided it was a good time for a pint of extra stout. The chose the last table, the one in a corner of the pub, where no one would bother them.

  
“It was NOT the same photoshoot!” Larry ranted. 

 

Bono covered his own face with both hands. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Give him another pint before I knock him out myself.”

 

“Larry, mate…” Adam feigned sorrow, but he couldn’t help but chuckling. “It _was_.”

  
“ It…” Larry puffed. “Okay, maybe it resembled a bit.”

  
“A bit?!” The other three said in unison. 

  
“He ripped it off…all the way! It was Anton’s photoshoot!” Bono finally exploded. “I can’t take this anymore.” 

  
As he excused himself, he walked between the tables, looking for a private place to use his phone. He’d tried to reply to Florence’s text repeatedly, but he didn’t find any chance. Now with Adam and Edge trying to get Larry drunk, it was the perfect time. He reached the restroom, and when he was just about to start typing, his phone buzzed.

 

Apparently it was not the perfect time.

  
“Oi, Guy!”

  
“ _Are you still in the magazine?”_

 

“No, we left ages ago. It didn’t last long.”

 

“ _So, how was it? Are you keeping the guy?”_

  
“ You’re kidding, right?”

 

“ _Something happened and I have no idea. If you’d be so kind…”_

  
“ It was a disaster. He arrived late. Then he bullied Owen, the makeup guy. And to make matters worse, he ripped off an Anton photoshoot from the nineties. I’m be fed up to the back teeth with people like this.”

  
“ _I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t know.”_

  
“ I’ll have a word with Heather, I know she recommended him. Do me a favor, please…”

  
“ _Yes?”_

  
“ Are you busy later this afternoon?”

  
“ _The usual.”_

  
“ Please, can you make an appointment with that guy as soon as possible?”

  
“ _I’m free after five.”_

  
“ Perfect. Write him a check that covers his service today. Tell him we thought about it and decided to withdraw our offer. I trust you’ll know what to say.” 

 

“ _Okay. Are you sure?”_

  
“ Couldn’t be surer.”

  
“ _Talk to you later, then.”_

  
“ Bye.”

  
He pocketed his phone and turned on the tap. Splashing some water on his face, he thought of Florence. He wanted to reply to that message, but now was certainly not the time. He would do it later that night.

  
The pub was even more crowded when he went outside. Bob Marley’s “I’m Hurting Inside” gave the place some atmosphere. Bono spotted his friends talking to each other. Suddenly, Adam said something that caused Edge and Larry’s laughter.

  
“What did I miss?” He said as he reached for his chair and sat.

  
“Good news!” Edge stifled another chuckle. “Larry here decided we shouldn’t go for Brian.”

  
“How come?” Bono said, playfully. He sipped at his drink.

  
“I’m sorry, Bono.” He looked at his friend very seriously. “I was a twit. I should have known better.”

  
Larry stopped, thinking Bono might just tell him not to worry. But instead he incited him to continue with a gesture.

  
“I apologize for insisting on keeping Brian. He was definitely not the best choice.” He paused again. 

  
“Go on, go on. Don’t be shy, Mullen.” Bono kept a poker face when he spoke.

 

Edge and Adam tried hard, but they couldn’t keep a straight face as Larry’s turned a bright red color.

  
“And—”

  
“And?”

  
“And you were right. That girl’s not bad. We should call Oseary and ask him to arrange a meeting with Brian.”

  
“I know. I just did.” Bono grinned.

  
 Edge and Adam looked at Bono; their looks not showing the slightest hint of surprise. There was a long lull and Larry stared at Bono. They all sat still, waiting for the first reaction.

  
“Fuck you!” Larry burst our laughing. His friends exchanged glances once again, this time their confusion showed on their slight smiles. “I’m glad you did, but I still don’t see clear the part about the girl. I mean, she’s good, but...is she the best we can get?”

  
“Larry,” Bono said, and the wrinkles on the corners of his eyes disappeared. “We’ve been together for almost forty years now. I know I have made innumerable mistakes, but you have to believe me this isn’t one of them. I believe in Florence. I really do.” 

 

“Lars, at least give her the benefit of the doubt.” Edge was the next one to speak. 

 

Larry looked at Adam, who nodded. “I think we should see what happens. I like what I’ve seen.”

  
Silence.

 

Even with the music  playing , Bono swore he could hear his own heart beating at full speed. U2 had always worked everything out, even the toughest decisions had been made. This one shouldn’t be that tough.

  
“I can't put up with another disappointment,” Larry said finally. “Not again. This is not a joke.”

  
“I know it is _not_. It will be worth it…” He said. “I promise.”


	7. The Conversation Is...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florence finds out something that will make her change her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is at last! Although it's a short one.  
> Thanks to everyone who has waited patiently for the different chapters, and thank you so much for reading. I want to thank ThePreciousHeart specially for helping me out with this chapter, and for putting up with me pestering all day long with so many emails. THANKS! 
> 
> Again, this story is not real. Never happened. Thanks again for reading (yeah, I could never thank you all enough!). 
> 
> Lyrics by Biffy Clyro.

“What will I do if I’m wrong?  
Will I blame it on everyone  
It’s like I always do  
I’m a coward because of you  
I’m finding it hard to explain why I think that I’m right again  
I’d love someone else to blame so I’m a coward because of you.”

 

The scent of alcohol hit Florence’s senses when Brian entered. It was past midnight when he came back from his appointment with U2. She thought it might have gone very well judging by the smell; he had probably gone for a couple of beers and ended up celebrating in one of those posh bars he liked to go. 

 

When she opened her eyes, her phone was the first thing she noticed; she’d been waiting for Bono’s response to her message. She felt Brian crawling into bed and getting under the duvet. 

 

She closed her eyes, wrinkled her nose and asked, “Where were you?” 

 

“It’s none of your business,” he groaned, kicking off his Frye boots and getting rid of his jeans. She kept quiet, listening to her own heartbeats. Soon it would be a brand new day and she’d find some peace of mind when he was sober. Hopefully he would apologize. 

 

Hopefully.

###  


 

Bono woke up more tired than before falling asleep. He’d crashed out on the sofa, and now it felt warm, almost suffocating, as if he’d been sleeping next to the devil himself. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head.  _Too much alcohol lately_ . Everything that had happened the previous day came in flashes. The interview, the photo shoot, Brian. 

 

_Ugh, Brian!_

 

It would be good if he never had to bump into him ever again; but something told him he would. He didn’t know when, or where, but Bono sensed they’d meet again. He hoped Oseary had called Brian to his office. The sooner they got rid of that rattlesnake, the sooner he could let Florence know she was officially hired. 

 

Florence.

 

_Florence!_

 

He’d forgotten to reply to her message. Very rude of him, he thought as he got right up from the sofa. While searching for his phone, he stumbled across his black trousers lying on the bathroom floor. He checked the pockets but it wasn’t there, or under the bed— and on top of the bathroom sink. Nothing. He swore he’d seen it before falling asleep on the sofa. It had to be somewhere; in fact, he’d fallen asleep going through his emails. Finally, he rummaged on more time between the cushions and hidden in one of the corners he found it. 

 

He opened the Messages app and typed.

 

_I’m sorry it took me so long to reply, I had a busy night— alcohol. Don’t ask :) and then I fell asleep while typing— excuses… I fell asleep on the sofa reading boring emails. Let me know where and when we can meet again. I’m free tonight. –B_

 

He read the whole message again and frowned; too long, too boring. He deleted it and started typing again.

 

_I won’t come up with a ridiculous excuse. Got drunk last night and fell asleep on the sofa reading boring emails. Let me know where and when we can meet again. Free tonight :) –B._

 

It was another lame text; he wasn’t going to send that one either, so he deleted it.

 

_Let me choose this time, so I can apologise properly for the late reply –B_

 

_Sent._

 

It hadn’t been five minutes since he sent it when his phone chimed with a new text.

 

_No, I’ll choose. That will be your punishment._

 

He smiled at her words and typed.

 

_I’m free tonight._

 

He wanted to start working with her as soon as possible. The band was under a lot of pressure. He was under a lot of pressure. The tour was imminent.

 

_I’m not._

 

“Damn it!” He cursed and threw his phone to the sofa. He paced the room, anxious and worried he might have screwed everything up. He rushed to grab the phone and typed.

 

_Why not?_

 

Her reply was of no help.

 

_Speak later._

 

He ran his fingers through his hair and replied, praying for at least a word in response.

 

_Tonight??_

 

But he got nothing in return. He looked at his watch and then outside. It was 9:45 and a beautiful morning was unfolding. Staring at the city of New York had always been one of his favorite pastimes; it brought such a peace of mind and relief that was hardly comparable to any other feeling. But today New York seemed to be cursed, he looked outside and he felt nothing but anxiety. Another beautiful but empty morning. Maybe going out for a coffee would help. Maybe Edge would join him.

 

_###_

 

It had been almost two hours since Florence had gotten out of bed. She enjoyed quiet mornings, where the only sound she heard was the hustle and bustle of the city’s restlessness even in the early hours. Another meaningless morning, yet so mysteriously interesting to Florence. She lit a cigarette as she stood by the window, looking down at the crowded street; thinking of all those complicated lives camouflaged with simple flesh and bone façade s . 

 

She counted three stubs in the ashtray, she had lost the sense of time. Her phone buzzed, lay on the coffee table in front of the couch. It was a text from Bono, with another one of his charming methods to convince her that fancy places were the best option to have a good time. She read the message again and chuckled. He wanted to apologize for the late reply to the text  she  had sent the night before. She replied back. She didn’t even notice Brian  walking to the kitchen  until she heard his voice.

 

“What are you doing?” He asked as he approached the kitchen sink. She typed as fast as she could and sent the text.

 

_Speak later._

 

“I was about to have some coffee but Jordan texted.” She lied handing him his coffee. Out of the very few things she hated the most, lying was by far the one she avoided at all cost; but she wasn’t sure about Bono, or the job offer, or anything at all. She only knew that the songs played in her mind night and day, and she couldn’t stop them. 

 

“What does she want now?” He was clearly annoyed, and Florence wondered if she had anything to do with his recent mood. She could never tell. Brian sat down at the table and sipped his coffee. Making a face, he put it aside.

 

“She wants to meet later, she’s working on a new project and she needs some feedback.” Florence grabbed his mug and poured the coffee down the kitchen sink. “You didn’t get much sleep, did you?”

 

“Nope. I have to go to the magazine later, I’ll have a Starbucks on my way there.”

 

“Brian.” She turned off her phone and sat across from him. “What’s happening?” 

 

She was really concerned, he could tell, but he was too angry to get into details. It was no use being an insufferable ass to her now that it was all over, it wouldn’t get him the job back and it wasn’t her fault. But he couldn’t help it.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it, I really don’t.” He stood up and walked to the fridge. He needed something in his stomach, even if it was just some orange juice drunk directly from the box. As he drank, the liquid trickled down his chin. “It’s not going to be a good day.” He wiped his mouth and put the box in the fridge again.

 

“You’ve been—” She shook her head to make that sentence vanish from her mind, Brian hated being told he was distant and Florence didn’t need a new argument at ten in the morning. “I’m here if you need to talk.”

 

“There’s nothing you can do, Florence.”

 

“Is it about that job offer?” She asked, but regretted her words as soon as she let them out. It didn’t matter; all she got was the sound of footsteps fading as he walked to the bedroom.

 

His pain was her pain, at least in her mind. She never knew whether the feeling was mutual. Sometimes she even wondered if the ring she wore was a mere attempt to try and save what was left of their relationship. She held hope, though. It was only a bad phase and Brian was going through a lot of stress at work. She thought twice, but ended up following him. As she walked to the bedroom she got the familiar feeling of a deja vú. The same scene played over and over, same ending. Once again, she gave in. 

 

She found him sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, his face hidden in his hands. She just sat next to him. No words, just the sound of silence drowned out by a wailing ambulance.

 

“It meant so fucking much to me. That job.” He didn’t address to Florence; he didn’t even meet her eyes. She had never seen him cry, but she swore his voice had cracked at the mention of the job. He still covered his face, ashamed of his own tears.

 

“You didn’t get it…” She bit her tongue. It was an affirmation rather than a question.

 

“I fucked it all. Everything I had worked and lived for…that stupid photoshoot!”

 

“You mean the photoshoot with U2? How did that affect your job offer?”

 

“You are so—” he paused and sighed. “U2 was offering me a job.”

 

“Oh…”

 

“There’s a tour coming up and they needed a photographer. They had scheduled a photoshoot and apparently it would influence their final decision. But I fucked it up.”

 

Everything after those words went unnoticed to Florence. Not able to move or say anything, she felt as if a bucket of ice had been thrown on her. It wasn’t what she had expected to hear. Why did Bono not tell her that they were considering someone else for the job—

 

“Oh, he did.” She didn’t mean to think aloud.

 

“What?” He looked up to meet her eyes.

 

“Uhm— I remembered that a friend of mine did mention U2’s upcoming tour. Oh, baby… I’m so sorry, but maybe they’ll reconsider their offer and call you back. You never know with celebrities.” She tried to cheer him up.

 

“You think so?” His expression changed instantly. He started to turn to her, but then stood up and walked to the window. “No, no, they won’t. Bono’s not like that. They’ll find someone else. They’ve probably always had someone else.”

 

“I’m sure they’ll call you back.”

 

“Yeah, you’re _always_ sure.” He brushed her off disdainfully; deep down he knew Florence didn’t deserve it, but he had to channel his powerlessness and anger somehow.

 

###

 

It was half past ten when Bono rushed to the living room where he had left his phone; it had chimed with a text from Florence.

 

_Would it be too much to meet in your apartment? It’s the safest place I can think of._

 

Confused, he texted back.

 

_Safest? Who are you hiding from?_

 

_Tomorrow 10:30 am?_

 

Why did she avoid his questions? What was going on? He didn’t want to, but he was starting to overthink. What if Larry was right and all this was just a waste of time? But Bono certainly didn’t want that guy Brian working for the band. They had always aimed for innovation and Brian had shown nothing else but lack of originality and a disrespect towards other people’s work, especially Anton Corbjin.

 

Bono typed his response.

 

_Breakfast? It’s on me._

 

Her response was quick and short, as if she felt guilty for typing.

 

_I can’t._

 

Enough was enough. Unable to understand what Florence was trying to do, he phoned her back.

 

“Hello?” Her voice sounded tired and somewhat sad. He didn’t want to put more pressure on her, but everything was uncertain and he hated not knowing what was going on; especially when there was so much at stake. He blurted the first words that came to his mind, and he knew he was going to regret them.

 

“This is not a game, Florence. I said I’d wait for you, but you seem to be playing with my head. All I ask is honesty.”

 

“You’re wrong, Mr. Hewson. But if that’s what you think, I’ll tell you the reason I’m not going to the studio.”

 

“So there’s a reason?” he said. He carelessly flopped down on the sofa.

 

“Don’t talk like that,” she snapped.

 

“Ah, c’mon!”

 

“I’ve changed my mind…” Before Florence finished the sentence, Bono sat straight and held his breath. He had a feeling he wasn’t about to hear good news. And then she dropped the bomb. “I have to decline your offer for that job.”

 

His blood ran cold and his heart sank. He didn’t know whether to smash the phone against the floor, or his head against the wall. Florence words were like a shot right to his brain, but in the end, it all seemed to be a joke. He took a deep breath and tried to stay calm.

 

“You’re not being serious, are you?” 

 

“I’m sorry I made you waste your time, but— I can’t. I’m so sorry.” He heard her voice crack, just like that one time she opened up and talked about her past. Bono still had hope, because deep inside he felt that she really wanted to work with the band. It was evident that something had happened and he wanted to find out what it was.

 

“We need to talk,” Florence said.

 

“Yes, we _do_ need to talk. As I said, I’m free tonight.” He tried one more time; maybe if they saw each other he could make her change her mind.

 

“I told you, Mr. Hewson, that I can’t see you tonight. My boyfriend will be here and I—”

 

“Is that it?” By the time he interrupted her, he was already pacing the room up and down. “Is it because of your boyfriend. Does he not want you to work with us? Because that’s the only logical reason I can think of.” He was finally freaking out, not really knowing what to say, but knowing he _had_ to say something. Maybe improvising was not the best option in this case. He was about to start rambling when she spoke up.

 

“Mr. Hewson...” There was an uncomfortable pause, and then she continued. “Will you be available tomorrow morning?” 

 

“If I wasn’t I’d cancel all my plans. I need to see you; we need to talk. Okay, I’ve said that before but…we _really_ , _really_ need to talk.”

 

She was thinking of Bono as he spoke, without paying attention at his actual words, only conscious that his voice was like a lifeline. 

 

“I’ll be there around 10:30 in the morning, I have a student at 9.” 

 

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

 

“Okay, see you then.”

 

“Oh, and Florence…”

 

“Yes, Mr. Hewson?”

 

“Please, don’t let the world grind you down.”

 

“Sometimes you have to give in…or you end up shattered into pieces. See you tomorrow.” And before he could say anything she was gone.

 

Bono threw his phone onto the corner of the sofa and lay down, staring at the ceiling and thinking. He _had_ to think. He wondered how could everything change in seconds. His heart was racing, and as crazy as it sounded, it wasn’t because of the band’s deadline or Larry and his stupid sermons. He realized that if Florence declined the offer, he would never see her again. He wasn’t ready for that; there were so many questions unanswered, so many stories untold. He wanted more. Maybe another afternoon talking about music, about her work? Those three hours at the restaurant hadn’t been enough for him. Florence remained a mystery he was desperate to solve. 

 

Running his fingers through his hair in exasperation, he stood up and dragged his feet to the bedroom. Lying on his bedside table was a copy of Delmore Schwartz’s  _In Dreams Begin Responsibilities._ He had looked through his collection and found it, he had planned to give it to Florence the next time they saw each other. Maybe the next morning. Now he needed that coffee and a long walk, maybe talk to someone before he lost the plot.

###

 

These conversations with Bono didn’t cease to surprise her; she never knew where they would lead, but they always led somewhere. She was now sitting before her drawing board doodling stars and cubes, thinking of him. Always thinking of him and his songs, trying to capture every detail. The absentmindedly rough drawings soon became well-formed lines and curves, and she stared at her rough sketch. 

 

Lines and curves shaped Bono’s face. She remembered his naked eyes staring at her in a mixture of wonder and eagerness as he spoke. His voice was low but vehement, as if he didn’t want to share his thoughts with anyone but her. She closed her eyes that night as she listened to his songs; as she’d been doing since the day she heard him sing for the first time. Her eyes switched to her phone, and tapped on her playlist. It had become a habit, or maybe it was an obsession? She flicked through the songs and chose randomly; it would intoxicate her either way.

 

A minimal drum beat ruled the room, followed by the sustained melody of a guitar and a synthesizer. Then the bass, like a rope, tied them up together. And finally  _his_ voice. A heartbreaking lament. A cry for help, perhaps? She let the phone on a corner of the board and went back to the sketch.

 

_I wait for you._

 

He sang and her heart sank with every word. She sensed a constant struggle in his soul. An old battle between who he really was, and the persona the rest of the world invented for themselves. He was just an image to a lot of people: the pompous rock star with the big mouth and a huge ego. But he was more than that, at least to Florence. But was she? Just a random stranger who had just met him and thought she knew him.  _No one_ knew him. Who could? He was just so many people, but at the same time he was just a boy from the North side of Dublin, with a head full of big ideas and a restless spirit. Where did she know him from? Where had she seen him before? She didn’t believe in reincarnation; she didn’t believe in previous lives. But how on earth could she feel this close to someone she had basically just met? He was so openly mysterious that it was easy to be connected with him in a certain way.

 

Did everyone else notice? Did every person who listened to their music feel as if they really knew him? Maybe she was just seeing ghosts where there weren’t any, but no one could drag her out of the places that only  _he_ could take her. She felt safe in the songs; safe in the warmth of his voice.

 

_With or without you_

_With or without you_

_I can't live_

_With or without you_

 

 

The rhythm of the song increased considerably until Bono let out an open-throated cry as the pressure of Florence’s pencil on the sheet hardened. A new line. Two more lines. Three. With an unjustified rage, she scribbled on it so hard that ended up tearing it. She was angry; angry at Jordan for showing the drawings to her father, angry at U2 for turning down Brian, angry at Bono for being enchanted by her trashy sketches, angry at herself accepting that stupid offer in the first place. But even if she tried to, she couldn’t be angry at Brian. What kind of relationship was that? She was coming to realize that it was sick and suffocating, but she didn’t want to run away from it. 

 

Bono hitting the falsetto was cathartic. She had poured all that anger on the sheet of paper that lay, torn and useless, on the floor. She took a deep breath and decided it was time for a walk, maybe a coffee. It would give time to think of what to say to Bono. She grabbed her phone and put it in her bag.

 

###

 

As she made her way outside the building, she took a minute to decide where to go. Walking without a specific destination seemed like the best choice. She’d get a coffee on her way. She put on her sunglasses and felt ready to walk the streets of New York City like a tourist. But before she could even cross the street, a voice stopped her.

“Florence!”


End file.
